path: root/69095-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 69095 ***







THE GREEK THEATER AND ITS DRAMA

[Illustration]




                     THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESS
                            CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

                        THE BAKER & TAYLOR COMPANY
                                 NEW YORK

                      THE CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS
                           LONDON AND EDINBURGH

                       THE MARUZEN-KABUSHIKI-KAISHA
                   TOKYO, OSAKA, KYOTO, FUKUOKA, SENDAI

                         THE MISSION BOOK COMPANY
                                 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.

CHAPTER IV

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.

CHAPTER V

THE INFLUENCE OF PHYSICAL CONDITIONS[308]


Whether the use of masks in Greek drama originated in the mere desire
for a disguise or in some ritualistic observance has not been definitely
established. At any rate their employment was peculiarly well adapted
to the genius of the ancient theater. First of all they enabled a small
number of actors to carry a much larger number of parts (see p. 173,
above). Secondly, the mouthpiece is claimed by some to have magnified the
sound of the actor’s voice, and thus helped to counteract the outstanding
fact in the physical arrangement of ancient theaters, viz., their huge
size (see p. 121, above). But in particular I wish to stress their
bearing upon another feature of the classic drama—the hugeness of ancient
theaters, together with the lack of opera glasses, made impossible an
effect which modern audiences highly appreciate. I refer to the delicate
play of expression on the mobile faces of the performers. In antiquity
such refinements could scarcely have been seen outside of the orchestra.
A partial substitute was occasionally found in a change of mask during
the performance. This became possible if a character was off-stage at
the time when his physical or mental state was supposed to be modified
by some misfortune or accident. Thus when some one’s eyes are dashed
out behind the scenes, as in Sophocles’ _Oedipus the King_, Euripides’
_Hecabe_ and _Cyclops_, etc., the mask with which he appears after this
event would naturally be different from that previously worn. Similarly
in Euripides’ _Hippolytus_ that hero, young and handsome, proudly leaves
the stage at vs. 1102. At vs. 1342 he is borne back in a dying condition,
battered and torn by his runaway team. It is plausible to suppose that
this change is reflected by a modification of his mask and costume.
Still another type is seen in Euripides’ _Phoenician Maids_. A seer has
demanded that Creon’s son be slain to redeem the fatherland, but at vs.
990 Creon departs with the assurance that Menoeceus will seek safety in
flight. When he reappears at vs. 1308 his brow is said to be clouded by
the news that his son had changed his mind and immolated himself for his
country’s good.

At best such a change of masks was but a clumsy and inadequate evasion
of the difficulty; yet even this was out of the question whenever the
catastrophe befell the character while on the scene. In these cases the
dramatists sometimes try to explain the immobility of the actor’s mask.
An unusually successful instance occurs in Sophocles’ _Electra_. Electra
had believed her brother dead, and now she unexpectedly holds him in
her arms, alive and well. But not a spark of joy can scintillate across
her wooden features either then or later. Her subsequent passivity is
motivated by Orestes’ request that she continue her lamentations and not
allow their mother to read her secret in her radiant face (vss. 1296
ff.). Electra replies that ‘old hatred of her mother is too ingrained
to allow her countenance to be seen wreathed in smiles, but that her
tears will be tears of joy,’ which has the merit of explaining also the
present unresponsiveness of her features. Sometimes the actor’s face is
hidden at times when strong emotions might be expected to play thereon.
For example, in Euripides’ _Orestes_, Electra and the chorus stand in the
orchestra and look toward the palace within which Helen is being slain
and from which her dying cries issue. Inasmuch as their backs are turned
to the audience, the spectators are free to suppose that their faces are
working with excitement and horror. This fiction will be destroyed as
soon as the performers wheel around toward the front again. Accordingly
Electra is made to say:

    Belovèd dames, into the jaws of death
    Hermione cometh! Let our outcry cease:
    For into the net’s meshes, lo, she falls.
    Fair quarry this shall be, so she be trapped.
    Back to your stations step with quiet look,
    With hue that gives no token of deeds done:
    And I will wear a trouble-clouded eye,
    As who of deeds accomplished knoweth nought.

                                       [Vss. 1313 ff.; Way’s translation]

Electra’s “trouble-clouded eye” does not refer to sorrow at Helen’s death
but at her brother’s evil plight, and has characterized her mask from the
beginning of the play.

Being largely balked in this matter, the Greeks characteristically
turned the limitation to good account. The mask-makers did not attempt
to fashion a detailed portrait—that would have suffered from the
same difficulty as the naked human physiognomy; like our newspaper
cartoonists, they reduced each character to the fewest possible traits,
which were suggested in bold strokes and were easily recognizable by even
the most remote spectator. Under close inspection representations of
ancient masks seem grotesque and even absurd (Figs. 4, 8, 17-21, 66, and
68 f.), but it must be remembered that distance would to a great extent
obliterate this impression. Moreover, such masks were admirably adapted
to, and at the same time reinforced, the Greek tendency to depict types
rather than individuals (see pp. 213 and 266 f.). On the modern stage
masks are practically unknown. We must not allow that fact to prejudice
us against their possible effectiveness. So respectable an authority as
Mr. Gordon Craig declares “the expression of the human face as used by
the theaters of the last few centuries” to be “spasmodic and ridiculous,”
that “the mask is the only right medium of portraying the expressions
of the soul as shown through the expressions of the face,” and that
they “will be used in place of the human face in the near future”; and
Mr. Cornford testifies to the baffling, tantalizing effect of a similar
device at the Elizabethan Stage Society’s representation of Marlowe’s
_Doctor Faustus_.[309]

The size of ancient theaters exercised an influence also in another
direction. In the absence of arches and domes or modern steel girders
it was impossible to roof over such a structure without a multitude of
supports to obstruct the view and hearing. Accordingly, the proceedings
were exposed to every caprice of the weather. For example, in the time
of Demetrius Poliorcetes an unseasonable cold spell and frost broke up
the procession. On the other hand the lack of an adequate and easily
controlled artificial illuminant such as gas or electricity would have
prevented the satisfactory lighting of a roofed theater, could they have
built one. Therefore, like the Elizabethans, their dramas were presented
in the daytime, and the constant harmony between lighting effects and
dramatic situation, which to us is a commonplace, was entirely beyond
their powers. But since it was also beyond their ken, it doubtless did
not bother them especially, and like much else was safely left to the
well-trained imaginations of the spectators. Thus dramatic characters
frequently address the heavenly constellations in broad daylight,
and ostensibly the entire action of the _Rhesus_ and much of that in
Euripides’ _Cyclops_ fall within the hours of night. Nevertheless, we
know that the playwrights were sometimes self-conscious concerning this
discrepancy. In Aristophanes’ _Frogs_ most of the action is supposed to
be laid in Hades, and ancient opinion was unanimous in considering that a
place of gloom. Since the poet could not count upon the sun going behind
a cloud to suit his convenience, he undertook to put the audience on
their guard against the incongruity. Toward the beginning of the play,
when Dionysus is seeking directions for his journey to the lower world
and the scene is still upon earth, Heracles tells him: “Next a breathing
sound of flutes will compass you about and you will see a light most
fair, _even as here_” (vss. 154 f.). Furthermore, shortly after the
action is transferred to the realm of Pluto, the matter is once more
called to the spectators’ attention by the chorus of initiates singing
(vss. 454 f.): “We alone have a sun and gracious light.”

So far as I have observed, the tragedians never stooped to apologize for
this absurdity, but they were willing, whenever possible, to accommodate
themselves to actual conditions. The dramatic exercises are said to have
begun at sunrise. Consequently, it is not surprising that the action
of tragedies like Aeschylus’ _Agamemnon_ and Euripides’ _Iphigenia at
Aulis_, which stood first in the series presented on the same day,
should open before daybreak. I must add, however, that such scenes
occur also in comedies and in tragedies which did not stand first in
their series, both of which must have been presented in the full light
of day. These instances of incongruity are to be explained by stating
that the arrangements and physical conditions which caused the Greek
playwrights usually to crowd the action of their dramas within a period
of twenty-four hours (see p. 250, below) would also lead them to make the
dramatic day as long as possible by beginning the action of their plays
at early morning.

Lessing and others have unfavorably contrasted Voltaire’s employment of
ghosts with Shakespeare’s practice. The comparison rests principally upon
two points: that the ghost of Hamlet’s father complied with “recognized
ghostly conditions” by appearing in the stillness of night and speaking
to but one, unaccompanied person, while the ghost of Ninus in _Sémiramis_
outraged accepted beliefs by stalking out of his tomb in broad daylight
and making his appearance before a large assembly. Now it is interesting
to observe that Greek practice is liable to these same criticisms. Thus
in Aeschylus’ _Persians_ (vss. 681 ff.) the ghost of Darius appears
in the full light of day and before his queen and no less than twelve
councilors. In Euripides’ _Hecabe_ (vss. 1 ff.) the difficulties are
somewhat obviated by placing the appearance of Polydorus’ ghost in the
prologue, before any other actor or the chorus has come in; and perhaps
Hecabe’s words in vss. 68 f., “O mirk of the night,” etc., are intended
to suggest that the preceding scene took place in darkness. In any case,
whatever make-believe the dramatists might choose to practice, the
considerations just mentioned, together with the almost constant presence
of the chorus, normally compelled apparitions appearing in Greek drama to
violate two provisions in the standard code of ghostly etiquette.

[Illustration: FIG. 70.—Ground Plan of the Theater at Thoricus in Attica

See p. 227, n. 1]

It is well known that in the earliest extant Greek plays, viz., the
_Suppliants_, _Persians_, and _Prometheus Bound_ of Aeschylus, the scene
is laid in the open countryside with not a house in sight and with no
scenic accessories except an altar, tomb, or rock, respectively. But that
this circumstance was explicable by the character of the Athenian theater
did not become evident until Dr. Dörpfeld’s excavations on that site in
1886, 1889, and 1895 (see pp. 65 ff., above, and Figs. 32 and 32_a_).
From 499 B.C. until about 465 B.C. the theater at Athens consisted of
an orchestral circle nearly eighty feet in diameter and somewhat south
of the present orchestra, and an auditorium arranged partly about it
on the Acropolis slope. Immediately behind the orchestra there was no
scene-building or back scene, but a six-foot declivity. Only within the
orchestra itself, at the center or to one side, might there be erected
for temporary use some such theatrical “property” as an altar or tomb.
Consequently it was inevitable that playwrights of the early fifth
century in choosing an imaginary scene for their plays should react to
these physical conditions and localize the dramatic action in more or
less deserted spots. Even as late as Aeschylus’ _Seven against Thebes_
(467 B.C.), although the scene no longer is laid in the countryside but
on the Theban Acropolis, yet this is still a place without inhabitants
or houses. It should be noted that at this period the exclusive mode of
ingress and egress was by the side entrances, the parodi; under normal
conditions, any movement into the orchestra or out of it, at the rear,
was entirely precluded by the declivity. That such a primitive theater
would suffice for the needs of that or even a later period is proved by
the remains of the structure at Thoricus (Figs. 70 f.),[310] which was
never brought to a higher state of development (see p. 103, above), and
by the fact that even at a later period dramatists sometimes voluntarily
reverted to this unpretentious stage setting. For example, in Sophocles’
_Oedipus at Colonus_ the background represented the untrodden grove of
the Eumenides, so that practically all the entrances and exits were
restricted to the parodi. An exceptional rear exit is afforded by
Aeschylus’ _Prometheus Bound_, and an exceptional rear entrance by the
next play in the trilogy, the _Prometheus Unbound_. We have already seen
(see pp. 166 f. and 174, above) how in the former play the hero, being
represented by a dummy, cannot speak until Hephaestus leaves the scene by
a side entrance and makes his way behind the rock upon which Prometheus
is bound. In the absence of a scene-building, the six-foot declivity
must have been utilized to conceal the second half of this movement.
Now the _Prometheus Bound_ ends as the Titan and his crag sink into
the depths; at the beginning of the _Prometheus Unbound_ this crag has
emerged from the abyss. What was the reason for this maneuver? Obviously
to enable an actor to be substituted for the lay figure of Prometheus.
So long as the hero was fixed in his place, an actor concealed behind
him experienced little difficulty in speaking his lines for him; but as
the time drew near for his release a living impersonator was required.
How was this substitution managed? I conceive that a wooden frame-work,
rudely suggesting a rock, was propped up at the outer extremity of the
orchestra. At the moment of the catastrophe the supports were removed and
the structure allowed to collapse into the declivity. After an interval
sufficient for the exchange had elapsed, the rocky background was once
more raised into its place and braced.

[Illustration: FIG. 71

AUDITORIUM AND ORCHESTRA OF THE THEATER AT THORICUS

See p. 227, n. 1]

About 465 B.C. an advance step in theatrical conditions was taken
when a scene-building was erected immediately behind the orchestra,
where the declivity had previously been (see p. 66, above). This first
scene-building must have been very simple, probably of only one story,
without either parascenia or proscenium (Fig. 74), and capable of being
readily rebuilt so as to be accommodated to the needs of different plays.
The extant dramas show that from the first the new background was pierced
by at least one door and that the number was soon raised to three, though
they were not all used in every production. The different doorways were
conventionally thought of as leading into as many separate houses or
buildings. Thus, whereas the actors had hitherto been able to enter and
depart only through the two parodi, from one to three additional means
of entrance were now provided. Moreover, the mere fact of having a
background was no small advantage. For example, it enabled Aeschylus to
introduce a distinct improvement in dramatic technique. Heretofore scenes
of violence must either have been boldly enacted before the spectators’
eyes or reported by a messenger. Since the sacrosanctity of the actor
while engaged in a performance and the Greeks’ aesthetic sense interfered
with the first alternative (see pp. 127-32, above), doubtless the second
had usually been resorted to. Now Aeschylus is said to have invented the
very effective device of having a character killed behind the scenes
during the play. In view of the physical conditions it will be understood
that the failure of Aeschylus’ predecessors to avail themselves of this
expedient was due to no lack of inventive genius on their part but simply
to the entire absence in their time of a back scene to use for the
purpose. It is not known just how long it took Aeschylus to discover this
possibility in the new arrangements; but it was certainly not later than
the _Agamemnon_ (458 B.C.), in which the king’s agonized death cries from
behind the scenes (vss. 1343 and 1345) still have power to affect even
modern audiences. Further modifications of this artifice have already
been mentioned on p. 128.

One of the most troublesome problems that confront a playwright is
inventing plausible motives to explain the entrances and exits of his
characters. The fundamental nature of this problem appears from the words
of a modern dramatist, Mr. Alfred Sutro: “Before I start writing the
dialogue of a play, I make sure that I shall have an absolutely free hand
over the entrances and exits: in other words, that there is ample and
legitimate reason for each character appearing in any particular scene,
and ample motive for his leaving it.” Now in the interior scene, and
especially in the box set, moderns have a marvelously flexible instrument
for shifting personages on and off the scene; yet few can avoid abusing
this resource and can repeat Mr. Bernard Shaw’s boast: “My people get on
and off the stage without requiring four doors to a room which in real
life would have only one.”[311] To the ancient writer the difficulty was
still greater. Prior to 465 B.C., when some uninhabited spot was perforce
chosen as the scene of action and the two parodi were the sole means of
ingress, it was fairly easy to motivate a person’s _first_ entrance and
withdrawal; but a reappearance proved a more difficult matter, and each
additional character complicated the problem still further. Consequently,
the ancient playwrights not infrequently frankly abandoned all search for
a solution and considered that to leave a character standing in idleness
during a whole scene or choral ode was less awkward and improbable
than any motive which they could provide for his exit and re-entrance.
Thus in Aeschylus’ _Suppliants_, Danaus enters the orchestra with the
chorus consisting of his daughters and remains at the altar, without a
single word to say, during their parodus of a hundred and seventy-five
lines. After a short scene the king of Argos appears, and then for
over two hundred lines (vss. 234-479) Danaus is again ignored (see pp.
163 f., above). In this play the town of Argos is thought of as lying
some distance away from the scene of action. Only an important errand
would take Danaus there, and evidently the poet experienced difficulty
in inventing as many errands as dramatic propriety required. Similarly
at vss. 181 ff. of Aeschylus’ _Seven against Thebes_, Eteocles rebukes
the chorus for their fears and lamentations; yet apparently he has been
standing there during their whole parodus (vss. 78-180) without a single
word of protest! But it was not characteristic of the Greek genius
tamely to submit to hindrances, and accordingly we are not surprised
that Aeschylus actually secured a striking dramatic effect by leaving
characters like Niobe and Achilles for considerable intervals speechless
and immovable on the scene. When finally uttered, their startling cries
of anguish were greatly enhanced by their previous long-continued
silence. It may not be amiss to note that Molière obtained similar
suspense by means quite opposite. In _Tartuffe_, contrary to all the
accepted rules, the principal character does not appear upon the scene
until after the beginning of the third act. But the conversation and
disputes of the other dramatic personages have so inflamed our curiosity
concerning him that we can scarcely wait to catch a glimpse of him, and
his entrance finally is thrice as effective as if it had come earlier in
the play.

The erection of a scene-building about 465 B.C. somewhat relieved the
difficulty of the playwrights’ problem. First of all the places of
entrance were increased 50 per cent or more. Secondly, the new entrances
were nearer the orchestra than were the parodi and enabled an actor to
come in or depart more quickly. Thirdly, the presence of buildings almost
required the scene to be laid in a town or city and correspondingly
multiplied the possible motives for visiting it. And finally, since
the doorways often represented the homes of certain of the dramatic
characters, no elaborate motivation was needed to explain their passing
in and out at frequent intervals. When his work was done, the useless
actor could be temporarily eliminated with neatness and dispatch. These
considerations and the introduction of the third actor at about the same
time (see p. 167, above) soon doubled the amount of coming and going in
the plays (cf. Mooney, _op. cit._, p. 54). The influence of the former
factor appears in Euripides’ _Suppliants_, the action of which takes
place before a temple. It so happens, however, that the temple doors
in this case are not used for entrances and exits. Consequently of all
Euripides’ tragedies this one has the least passing to and fro. On the
other hand the influence of the second factor is seen in the fact that
this piece and Sophocles’ _Oedipus at Colonus_ (see p. 227, above), both
making practically no use of their back scene but both employing three
actors, are higher in “action” than the corresponding plays of Aeschylus,
which belong to the two-actor period.

Nevertheless, when all is said, the erection of a scene-building still
left the ancient dramatists far behind the moderns in the easy and
plausible motivation of their characters’ movements, and no further
advance (from this point of view) was subsequently made in the theatrical
arrangements. All the dramatic personages still had to come to the same
(usually a public) place; they could not dodge in at one door and out
at another at their creator’s caprice, but whether entering or leaving
had to walk a considerable distance in plain view of the spectators.
Consequently the silent actor is found after 465 B.C. as well as before.
Thus in Euripides’ _Suppliants_ one or more characters are being
neglected at almost every point. But in my opinion this phenomenon is no
longer due primarily to the inadequacy of the theatrical arrangements but
to other considerations. For example, the limited number of actors often
resulted in prolonged or awkward silence on the part of a character who
was being impersonated by a mute (see pp. 174-82, above). Again, in the
_Alcestis_, after Heracles has brought the queen back from her grave,
she utters never a word. Euripides himself explains this on the ground
that she may not speak until her consecration to the gods of the lower
world be undone and the third day come (vss. 1144 ff.). This is a clever
pretext but not the real reason. Nor do I think, as some do, that in this
instance the limitation of actors is responsible, since only two actors
speak in this scene and the play belongs to the three-actor period.
Alcestis’ silence springs rather from the impossibility of placing in
her mouth a message worthy of her experiences, one which “telling what
it is to die had surely added praise to praise.” Still again the silence
frequently arises from inability to master the technique of the trialogue
(see pp. 169 f.) or from the nature of the plot. In any trial scene it
is almost inevitable that both the judge and the accused should remain
inactive for considerable intervals. Thus in Aeschylus’ _Eumenides_ the
silence of Athena (vss. 585-673 and 711-33) and of Orestes (vss. 244-63,
307-435, 490-585, and 614-743) is scarcely more noteworthy than that of
the Duke and Antonio in Act IV of _The Merchant of Venice_. When his case
was about to be decided, Orestes terminated a silence of one hundred and
thirty lines by the thrilling ejaculation, “O Phoebus Apollo, what shall
the judgment be!” (vs. 744)—another example of the dexterity with which
the Greek poets could transmute base metal into pure gold.

It need not be said that the same difficulty of plausible motivation
puzzled the comic as well as the tragic writers of antiquity, and they
extricated themselves with no less ingenuity in their own way. For the
further unfolding of the plot in Plautus’ _Pseudolus_ it became necessary
that that crafty slave should explain to his accomplices certain
developments which had already been represented on the scene. Actually
to repeat the facts would have been tedious to the spectators, while
to motive an exit for all the parties concerned until the information
could be imparted and then to motive their re-entrance might have proved
difficult and certainly would have caused an awkward pause in the action.
The poet therefore chose the bolder course of dropping for the moment
all dramatic illusion and at the same time of slyly poking fun at the
conventions of his art: “This play is being performed for the sake of
these spectators. They have been here, and are aware of developments.
I’ll tell _you_ about them afterwards”(!) (vss. 720 f.).

We have already referred to the fact that topographical conditions
in Athens gave rise to a convention regarding the significance of the
parodi (see p. 208, above). As the spectator sat on the south slope of
the Acropolis at Athens, with the orchestra and scene-buildings before
him, the harbor of the Piraeus and the market place lay toward his right
and the open country on his left (Fig. 29). And since the theater was
roofless and the performances given in daylight, these relationships were
visible and must at all times have been present to the consciousness of
the audience. The matter was, therefore, one of more consequence than in
the modern theater, where many spectators, being unable to see points
of orientation outside, would be puzzled to indicate the points of the
compass. In the Athenian theater, on the contrary, if the scene were laid
locally no poet or stage manager could have allowed a character from the
Piraeus to enter by the left (east) parodus without committing a patent
absurdity. In such a case there was, at the beginning, no convention; the
plays simply reacted to actual local conditions. But the fifth-century
plays were rarely laid in Athens, and in them comparatively little is
said of harbor, market place, or countryside, whether at Athens or
elsewhere. Apart from a rigid convention, there would be no point in
staging Aeschylus’ _Suppliants_, the scene of which is laid just outside
the city of Argos, or Aristophanes’ _Birds_, whose scene is supposed to
be in the clouds, in such a way as to conform to Athenian topography. In
fact, incidental allusions in the fifth-century plays, the comparative
infrequency in them of references to harbor, country, and market place,
and minor infelicities arising from any attempt to foist this convention
upon them, would all seem to indicate that these plays had been written
without much regard for local geography. But with increasing frequency
Athens became the imaginary scene of comedies, and the relationships
which had become a fixed rule for them were transferred to tragedy also,
and soon to other theaters whose setting bore little or no resemblance to
that of the theater of Dionysus Eleuthereus. Certainly by the time of New
Comedy the convention was firmly established, and except for characters
leaving or entering the houses in the background almost every exit or
entrance was oriented for the audience with reference to country, harbor,
or market place. When Greek comedy was transplanted to Italian soil
the convention was taken over, too, and reappears, possibly with some
modification, in the plays of Plautus and Terence.

Regardless of the convention, however, and the period of its origin
there is one blemish which careful stage managers nowadays seek to
avoid. When a door closes upon a departing character, it should not be
immediately opened again to admit another character, whom the first
character must have brushed against in the hall. A slight pause is
somehow provided to enable the two characters to avoid meeting and to
give the sense of space beyond the room on the stage. Now in Euripides’
_Alcestis_ a violation of this common-sense principle of stage craft
seems to occur. At vs. 747 Admetus and the chorus have departed bearing
the body of Alcestis to its last resting place. In the ensuing scene
Heracles at last learns the identity of the deceased and at vs. 860
rushes out to wrestle with the king of the dead beside the grave. _In the
very next verse_ Admetus returns. According to the Hellenistic convention
Heracles must have departed and Admetus have re-entered through the
parodus at the audience’s left. But which parodus was employed does
not in this case greatly matter. The point is that since Heracles was
bound for the spot from which Admetus was returning, they must have used
_the same parodus_. Nevertheless, later developments show that they
did not meet; indeed, certain telling features of the dénouement would
have been spoiled if they had. Yet how could they avoid doing so? The
play furnishes no reply. So far as I can see the only way in which the
difficulty can be obviated is by supposing that vss. 747-860 take place
before a slightly different part of the palace from the rest of the play.
Scholars, however, do not commonly accept a change of scene in this piece
(see pp. 250 f., below).

The space between the two parodi and leading past the scene-building
was usually thought of as representing a street or roadway (see p. 86,
above). In the Hellenistic theater at Athens a stone proscenium ran
across the front of the scene-building from one parascenium to the
other (see p. 70, above) (Fig. 38), and it is likely that a wooden
proscenium occupied the same space from about 430 B.C. It is true that
the stone foundation of the parascenia, which were probably erected
to serve as a framework for the proscenium, cannot go back of 415-421
B.C. at the earliest (see p. 67 and n. 1, above). But it is fair to
assume that parascenia entirely of wood were erected as an experiment
a few years before permanent foundations were provided for them, and
the proscenium colonnade seems to have been employed at least as early
as Euripides’ _Hippolytus_ (428 B.C.) and Aristophanes’ _Clouds_ (423
B.C.). Confirmation for this conclusion may be found in the fact that
the crane (μηχανή) was introduced at about this same time (see p. 289,
below). When the scene was laid before a private house or a palace, the
colonnade was in place as signifying its prothyron (πρόθυρον) or “porch.”
When the background was thought of as a temple the proscenium was its
_pronaos_ (πρόναος) or “portico.” Moreover, when a less conventional
setting was required, painted panels (πίνακες) could be inserted in the
intercolumniations in order to suggest the desired locality, and in some
theaters the proscenium columns were shaped so as to hold such panels
more firmly in place (Fig. 72).[312] Thus the action in Sophocles’
_Oedipus at Colonus_ takes place before a grove, and that in Plautus’
_The Fisherman’s Rope_, along a beach. The interruption of natural
scenery by columns at regular intervals would be disturbing to us; that
it did not seem so to the Greeks was due not only to their ignorance of
modern scenery but also to the sketchy shorthand which they practiced in
other fields of art. On ancient vases, for example, a whole forest is
frequently represented by a single tree. A similar convention obtains in
the drama of modern Persia, where “the desert is represented by a handful
of sand on the platform, the river Tigris by a leather basin full of
water.”[313] Sophocles is said to have invented scene painting during the
lifetime of Aeschylus (see p. 66, above), but this must be interpreted
as meaning that he had the panels applied directly to the front of the
scene-building, the proscenium being not yet introduced. It has also been
suggested, on the basis of certain vase paintings (Fig. 73),[314] that an
actual porch (prothyron) was sometimes built extending from the center of
the proscenium or taking the place of a proscenium and extending from the
center of the scene-building’s front wall. But perhaps these paintings
are only conventionalized representations of the proscenium colonnade
itself. In any case it is important to observe that no background
corresponding to the scene-building is indicated on the vases.

[Illustration: FIG. 72.—Horizontal Sections of Proscenium Columns at
Megalopolis and Eretria (1), Epidaurus (2), Delos (3), and Oropus (4).

See p. 236, n. 1]

[Illustration: FIG. 73.—A Fourth-Century Vase in Munich Representing the
Vengeance of Medea.

See p. 236, n. 3]

Now it will be noted that these theatrical arrangements made no
provision for an interior scene. The dramatic action was necessarily
laid in the open air, usually before a palace, private house, or temple.
Though occasional plays, like Mr. Louis Parker’s _Pomander Walk_, show
that the thing can still be managed, in general modern dramatists would
be paralyzed by such a requirement. Nor is it correct to state that
the classical poets “seldom had occasion to show an interior scene.”
The truth is precisely the opposite: having no way in which to show an
interior they were constrained to rest content with alfresco scenes. Yet
the situation was not so desperate as it would seem. Corneille pointed
out that Greek kings could meet and speak in public without a breach
of etiquette.[315] At the French court, and consequently on the French
stage, such conduct would have been intolerable. In the second place
the mildness of a southern climate justified some practices which might
appear strange to more northern peoples. Many things which we would
consider must be kept strictly within doors would sometimes take place in
the street. Semi-privacy was afforded by porches and porticoes, that is,
theatrically speaking, by the colonnade of the proscenium. Our nearest
parallel would be sun parlors or screened porches and even these fall
short. Doubtless this difference in weather conditions has something to
do with the fact that modern playwrights of the classic school, who,
though freed from the material restrictions of the ancients, have yet
slavishly imitated them in so much else, have not followed them in this
partiality for outdoor scenes. Allowance must also be made for the fact
that in comedy the characters uniformly belonged to the lower strata of
society. Accordingly we need feel little surprise that in Aristophanes’
_Clouds_ (vss. 1 ff.) Strepsiades and his son are disclosed sleeping
before their home in the open air, though we have no reason to believe
that they are either actual or prospective victims of tuberculosis. In
Euripides’ _Orestes_ (vss. 1 ff.) the matricide, wasted by illness, lies
on his couch before the palace in Argos under his sister’s care. In
Plautus’ _The Churl_ (vss. 448 ff.), Phronesium reclines on a bed before
the house, pretending that she has given birth to a child. In Plautus’
_The Haunted House_ (vss. 248 ff.), Philematium asks her maid for a
mirror, jewel box, etc., and a scene of prinking ensues in the open air.
Scenes of outdoor feasting and carousing are too numerous to deserve
individual mention. I cannot accept the contention that the action of
such scenes takes place in an “imaginary interior.” They are frankly out
of doors; in this connection such expressions as “outside the house,”
“before the doors,” etc., are frequent. These scenes were enacted in the
colonnade of the proscenium and are correctly copied from ancient life.
Of course I concede that in real life they would take place indoors as
often as out, or even more often; but they were common enough as open-air
scenes to justify the playwrights in constantly transcribing them in this
fashion.

But the significance of the considerations mentioned in the last
paragraph must not be overestimated. The difficulty arising from physical
conditions in the theater was cumulative. In other words the placing
of any particular scene in the open air was generally justifiable by
ancient habits of living and not difficult to motivate; but to place
_every_ scene in _every_ play out of doors and under these conditions to
invent a plausible motive for every entrance taxed the dramatists’ powers
to the utmost and sometimes exceeded them.[316] No wonder, then, that
occasionally they abandoned all attempts to explain their characters’
movements and coolly allowed them to leave their dwellings and to speak,
without apology or excuse, of the most confidential matters in a public
place. Many instances of this license, however, seem to have been
conditioned by definite rules. For example, if a character leaves his
house while engaged in conversation with another, no reason is given for
their entrance, i.e., for their not having concluded the conversation
where it was begun. Examples of this technique do not occur until about
400 B.C. (see p. 310, below, and the instances there cited). Secondly,
no entrance motive is provided when a character is to take part in a
dialogue with another who is already on the scene and whose own entrance
has been motived. Thus in Euripides’ _Alcestis_, Heracles enters at vs.
476 in order to seek hospitality at Admetus’ palace; at vs. 506 the
chorus announces the king’s emergence, which is entirely unmotived. Six
other examples of this technique occur in Greek tragedy.

Nevertheless, in general the ancient playwrights displayed an amazing
fertility of invention in explaining why their characters came out
of doors and spoke in so public a place of matters which might more
naturally have been reserved for greater privacy. Thus in Euripides’
_Alcestis_, Apollo explains his leaving Admetus’ palace on the ground of
the pollution which a corpse would bring upon all within the house (vss.
22 f.) and Alcestis herself, though in a dying condition, fares forth to
look for the last time upon the sun in heaven (vs. 206). Oedipus is so
concerned in the afflictions of his subjects that he cannot endure the
thought of making inquiries through a servant but comes forth to learn
the situation in person (Sophocles’ _Oedipus the King_, vss. 6 f.);
Carion is driven out of doors by the smoke of sacrifice upon the domestic
altar (Aristophanes’ _Plutus_, vss. 821 f.); Polyphemus leaves his cave
intending to visit his brothers for a carousal (cf. Euripides’ _Cyclops_,
vss. 445 f. and 507 ff.). In Euripides’ _Andromache_, Hermione’s nurse,
worn out in the attempt to save her mistress from self-destruction,
hurries out and appeals to the chorus for assistance; a moment later
Hermione herself escapes from the restraining clutches of her attendants
and rushes upon the stage (vss. 816 ff.). Agathon cannot compose his
odes in the winter time unless he bask in the sunlight (Aristophanes’
_Women at the Thesmophoria_, vss. 67 f.). In Plautus’ _The Haunted House_
(vss. 1 ff.) one slave is driven out of doors by another as the result
of a quarrel. The lovelorn Phaedra teases for light and air (Euripides’
_Hippolytus_, vss. 178 ff.). Medea’s nurse apologizes for soliloquizing
before the house with the excuse that the sorrows within have stifled
her and caused her to seek relief by proclaiming them to earth and sky
(cf. Euripides’ _Medea_, vss. 56 ff. and pp. 307 f., below). And Antigone
informs her sister that she has summoned her out of doors in order to
speak with her alone (Sophocles’ _Antigone_, vss. 18 f.), as if that were
the most natural place in the world for a tête-à-tête. In connection with
this last instance it must be remembered that the interior of ancient
houses was arranged differently than ours and was more favorable for
eavesdropping (cf. Terence’s _Phormio_, vss. 862-69).

The difficulty inherent in the exclusive use of exterior scenes appears
very strikingly in Euripides’ _Cyclops_. Here the action would naturally
take place in Polyphemus’ cave, as it does in Homer’s _Odyssey_; but,
theatrical conditions making that impossible, the scene is laid before
the cave’s mouth. Contrary to verisimilitude, therefore, the poet is
obliged to allow Odysseus to pass in and out without let or hindrance.
Why, then, does he make no attempt to escape? Euripides anticipated this
query and explained Odysseus’ remaining by regard for his companions’
safety (vss. 479 ff.). But why was it not equally feasible for his
comrades to leave the cave and for all to be saved together? The poet can
think of no better motive than that Odysseus’ pride and sense of honor
caused him to desire to take vengeance on Polyphemus for having murdered
some of his followers (vss. 694 f.).

Being unable actually to represent an interior scene the Greek
playwrights gladly availed themselves of several substitutes. The most
common of these was the messenger’s speech (see p. 164, above), by which
occurrences that had taken place indoors were related to the chorus or
to actors before the house. Another substitute was found in the cries
of characters murdered behind the scenes (see pp. 128 and 229, above).
A third method consisted in throwing open the doors in the background
and revealing a scene of murder done within (see p. 128, above). We are
told further that sometimes, when the doors were flung open, a platform,
with a tableau mounted upon it, was pushed forward for a few moments
(see the discussion of the _eccylema_ on pp. 284-89, below). A fourth
evasion of the restriction occurs in Euripides’ _Hippolytus_, vss. 565
ff. Phaedra from her couch in the proscenium colonnade hears the voices
of her confidential slave and Hippolytus engaged in conversation within
doors. She invites the chorus in the orchestra near by to join her in
listening at the door—a proposal which for obvious dramatic reasons the
choreutae cannot accept; but her own cries and exclamations of despair as
she listens stir the audience much more profoundly than the conversation
itself could have done. Thus the main portion of the dialogue between
Hippolytus and the slave is supposed to take place indoors. It is
concluded before the house, the two interlocutors entering the stage at
vs. 600.

Still again, the dramatists of New Comedy were fond of representing a
character in the act of passing through a doorway and shouting back
parting injunctions to those within—an artifice which is sufficiently
transparent and is justly ridiculed in Terence’s _Andrian Girl_. A nurse
has been summoned in a confinement case and issues her final instructions
while leaving the house. Simo, who thinks no child has been born and that
it is all a trick to deceive him, turns fiercely upon the scheming slave
at his side: “Who that knows you would not believe this to be the product
of your brain? She did not tell what must be done for the mother in her
presence; but after taking her departure she screams from the street to
the attendants within. O Davus, do you scorn me so? Pray do I seem so
suitable a victim for you to beguile with such transparent stratagems?
You ought to work out the details of your plots more exactly, so that I
might at least _seem_ to be feared in case I learned the truth” (vss. 489
ff.). Be it noted, however, that such a stickler for realism as Ibsen
occasionally made use of this same device (cf. _Pillars of Society_, Acts
II and III). A close parallel occurs in Aristophanes’ _Acharnians_, vss.
1003 ff.

As a final illustration of the artificiality of the exterior scene I may
refer to the manner in which characters are brusquely called out of their
homes to meet the demands of the dramatic situation. Thus in Euripides’
_Iphigenia at Aulis_ a messenger enters and unceremoniously shouts to his
queen within doors:

    Daughter of Tyndareus, Clytemnestra, come
    Forth from the tent, that thou mayst hear my tale.

                                       [Vss. 1532 f.; Way’s translation],

and in Euripides’ _Children of Heracles_, Iolaus calls:

    Alcmene, mother of a hero-son,
    Come forth, give ear to these most welcome words.

                                         [Vss. 642 f.; Way’s translation]

To judge by such a dramatic expedient, the front walls of ancient houses
must have been pretty thin![317] It is interesting to contrast the uproar
which is required in Shakespeare’s _Othello_ (Act I, scene 1) before
Brabantio can be brought to his window. Perhaps the most amusing instance
of this convention occurs in Plautus’ _Braggart Captain_. In that play
a slave had to be deluded into believing that two women of identical
appearance lived in adjoining houses. Accordingly he is first sent into
one house and then into the other, while directions are shouted to the
one woman in question to move back and forth by means of a secret passage
so as always to meet him (vss. 523 ff.). This of course presupposes that
the walls will be thin enough for the woman to hear through but too thick
for the slave to do so!

The publicity thus inevitably attending conversations of the most private
nature was rendered still more incongruous by the constant presence of
the chorus; but this topic has already been treated on pages 154-57,
above.

Whether the fifth-century theater was provided with a drop curtain has
often been discussed. I am inclined to think there is no conclusive
evidence for the constant and regular use of one. The considerations
upon which the argument mainly rests are a priori. That is to say, in
several Greek plays the actors must arrange themselves and be in position
before the action begins. This is the situation in Euripides’ _Orestes_
and Aristophanes’ _Clouds_ (see p. 238, above). Did Orestes take to
his sick bed in full view of the assembled audience? But he is said
(cf. vs. 39) already to have been there for five days! And though the
action of the _Clouds_ begins just before dawn, Strepsiades and his son
are supposed to have lain before the house all night. In such matters
we must not permit our own prepossessions to mislead us. In mediaeval
drama though a character was in view of the audience he could be thought
of as, in effect, behind the scenes until his part began. Similarly in
oriental theaters today performers are treated as if they could put
on the mask of invisibility. The only standing concession which I can
make to modern feeling consists in granting that the proscenium columns
partially screened the actors from the audience while they were taking
their places. In my opinion the nearest approach to the use of a curtain
occurs in Sophocles’ _Ajax_ and is quite exceptional. That hero committed
suicide on the stage, and his body was found in a woodland glen (νάπος,
vs. 892) near the seashore. I suppose that one of the side doors in the
front of the scene-building[318] was left open to represent the entrance
to the glen, and that around and behind it were set panels painted
to suggest the woodland coast and the glen (see pp. 235 f., above).
Into this opening Ajax collapsed as he fell upon his sword. At vs.
915, Tecmessa “conceals him wholly with this enfolding robe.” Possibly
this means that the cloth was fastened about the corpse and across the
doorway, thus enabling a mute or a lay figure to be substituted for the
corpse and releasing this actor to appear as Teucer in the remainder of
the play (see p. 174, above). Whatever the means employed, it is certain
that a substitution was effected.

It has often been maintained that the abrupt endings of so many modern
plays is due to the fact that we possess a drop curtain which can be
brought down upon the action with a bang, and that the quieter endings
of, for example, Elizabethan plays arise from their being written for
curtainless theaters. I do not entirely disapprove of this suggestion,
but wish to point out that the difference originates, at least in part,
also in a difference in taste at different times and among different
peoples. It is true that the Greeks probably had no drop curtain and
that their dramas usually end upon a note of calm. But the same kind of
close is normal in other fields of their literature, where the presence
or absence of a curtain did not enter into consideration. For example,
there is a distinct tendency for modern orators to close speeches with a
peroration which is intended to sweep auditors off their feet. Not so in
Greek oratory. “Wherever pity, terror, anger, or any passionate feeling
is uttered or invited, this tumult is resolved in a final calm; and where
such tumult has place in the peroration, it subsides before the last
sentences of all.”[319] The same situation obtains likewise in the case
of the Greek epic as in Homer’s _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_.




    The unities, sir, are a completeness—a kind of a universal
    dovetailedness with regard to place and time—a sort of a
    general oneness, if I may be allowed to use so strong an
    expression. I take those to be the dramatic unities, so far as
    I have been enabled to bestow attention upon them, and I have
    read much upon the subject, and thought much.—CHARLES DICKENS.

CHAPTER VI

THE INFLUENCE OF PHYSICAL CONDITIONS (_CONTINUED_): THE UNITIES[320]


The dramatic unities, three principles governing the structure of
drama and supposedly derived from Aristotle’s _Poetics_, are a subject
of perennial interest. They are known as the unities of time, place,
and action, respectively, and require that “the action of a play should
be represented as occurring in one place, within one day, and with
nothing irrelevant to the plot.” The essential facts concerning them
were recognized at least as long ago as the publication of Lessing’s
_Hamburgische Dramaturgie_ (1767). But so deep-rooted is the popular
impression that the Greeks formulated these rules arbitrarily and
observed them slavishly that no attempt to state the true situation
can be superfluous. The current doctrine is based on the fact that the
classic dramatists in France and Italy blindly obeyed the rules as a
heritage of the past, without regard to the demands of the theater at
their own disposal; and, consequently, the inference has been easily and
naturally drawn that the ancient practice was equally irrational.

But in the Greek theater, where there was no drop curtain, no scenery
to shift, and a chorus almost continuously present, a change of scene
was difficult to indicate visually. Nevertheless Aristotle nowhere
mentions the unity of place, and the Greek dramatists not infrequently
violate it. The most familiar instances occur in Aeschylus’ _Eumenides_
and Sophocles’ _Ajax_. The former play opens at the temple of Apollo
in Delphi, whither the avenging Furies have pursued Orestes after his
mother’s murder. During a momentary lapse from their watchfulness Orestes
makes his escape, but the Furies soon awaken and take up the trail once
more. The scene is thus left entirely vacant (vs. 234) and is supposed to
change to Athens, where all parties presently appear for the famous trial
before the Council of the Areopagus. The beginning of the latter play
takes place before Ajax’ tent, and Sophocles wished to introduce the very
unusual motive of having a scene of violence enacted before the audience.
As the presence of the chorus was an insuperable obstacle to such a deed,
Ajax was allowed to leave the scene and, suspicion being soon aroused,
the chorus was sent in search of him (vs. 814). Thus, the scene is again
entirely deserted by both actors and chorus, and Ajax returns, not to his
tent, but to some lonely spot near the seashore (see pp. 129 and 244,
above). This was by far the most natural and logical method of leading up
to a change of scene, was infinitely superior to Shakespeare’s practice
in _King Henry V_, where Chorus is introduced in the prologue of each
act to acquaint the spectators with the scene of the succeeding action,
but was so difficult to motivate that only some half a dozen examples
are known to us in the whole Greek drama. On the other hand, such a
technical device was usually not well adapted to represent considerable
shifts of scene, since it would seem unnatural for so large a body of
persons as the chorus always to accompany the dramatic characters to
widely separated localities. To this general restriction, however, the
_Eumenides_ furnishes a brilliant exception, because it was the especial
duty of the Furies to track the guilty Orestes wherever he might flee. In
Old Comedy, ever fantastic and intentionally impossible, greater freedom
was naturally allowed than in tragedy, so that in Aristophanes’ _Frogs_
no less than five different scenes are successively required (see pp.
88-90, above).

At the same time the need of such scene-shifting was largely obviated
by the arbitrary placing of almost all scenes before a building,
by the exclusion of interior scenes, and by the various devices
substituted therefor (see pp. 237-42, above). In particular the use
of the messenger’s speech enabled dramatists to bring indirectly
before their audiences events which had taken place, not merely in the
scene-house interior, but at far distant spots. Very commonly the unity
of place was observed by conventionally bringing together as close
neighbors structures or localities which would actually be separated by
considerable intervals. Thus the murderers of Agamemnon would not wish
his grave to stare them in the face and to remind their subjects of their
crime; nevertheless in Aeschylus’ _Libation-Bearers_ palace and tomb
stand side by side. Likewise in Euripides’ _Helen_, King Theoclymenus has
buried his father in front of his palace. Now these arrangements are not
to be interpreted in the light of the prehistoric custom of placing the
dead within the house or before its threshold. It is purely a theatrical
convention, and Euripides shows what he thought of it by deeming it
necessary to put an excuse on the Egyptian king’s lips:

    Hail, my sire’s tomb!—for at my palace-gate,
    Proteus, I buried thee, _to greet thee so_;
    Still as I enter and pass forth mine halls,
    Thee, father, I thy son Theoclymenus hail.

                                       [Vss. 1165 ff.; Way’s translation]

Many similar instances of incongruous juxtaposition in Greek drama can be
cited, and those who remember the use of the continuous set in mediaeval
theaters will feel no surprise.

Slightly different but no less efficacious is the method of procedure
in the _Persians_. For dramatic effect Aeschylus wished to introduce the
ghost of Darius. But according to ancient notions on the subject ghosts
do not normally wander far from their tombs, and the real grave of Darius
was at Persepolis. Furthermore, under the conditions supposed the Persian
elders, the royal messenger, and Xerxes himself would not naturally
resort thither. Consequently, without the slightest compunction,
Aeschylus transferred the dead monarch’s tomb to Susa!

Sometimes the unity of place was observed by causing a character to come
to a spot to which he would not naturally resort. The scene of Euripides’
_Phoenician Maids_, for instance, is laid in Thebes, and the poet wished
to show a meeting of the Theban king and his brother. Since the latter is
considered a traitor and the enemy of his country, is in banishment and
at the head of an invading army, such a meeting in real life would almost
inevitably be held between the hostile lines. Yet Polynices is forced to
intrust his head to the lion’s jaws and enter the city. He expresses his
own misgivings in vss. 261 ff., concluding:

    Yet do I trust my mother—and mistrust,—
    Who drew me to come hither under truce.

                                         [Vss. 272 f.; Way’s translation]

At vss. 357 ff. he alludes to the matter once more.

Similarly, a character is oftentimes forced to remain upon the scene of
action when he would not naturally do so. Thus, in Plautus’ _Menaechmi_,
owing to a failure to distinguish Menaechmus I from his brother, his
father-in-law and a physician consider him insane and make arrangements,
in his hearing, for his apprehension. Notwithstanding, when they both
leave the stage at vs. 956 he makes no attempt to escape—an act which
would transfer the next two scenes elsewhere—but unconcernedly awaits
developments.

Finally I may mention one especially amusing artifice. In Euripides’
_Iphigenia among the Taurians_, Orestes has left the scene and is now
supposed to be some distance away. Notwithstanding, Athena addresses him
and apologetically adds: “For, though absent, you can hear my voice,
since I am a goddess” (vs. 1447). The same situation recurs, without
apology, at vs. 1462 and in Euripides’ _Helen_, vss. 1662 ff.

Likewise, the unity of time arose, not from the whim of ancient
writers, but from the same theatrical arrangements which resulted in the
unity of place, viz., the absence of a drop curtain and the continuous
presence of the chorus. Under these conditions an intermission for the
imaginary lapse of time could be secured only by the withdrawal of the
chorus, and without such intermissions the constant and long-continued
presence of the same persons in the same place without food or slumber
was in danger of becoming an absurdity. Now we have seen how difficult
it was to invent motives for the successive reappearances of actors;
to motivate the movements of a body of twelve (fifteen) tragic or
twenty-four comic choreutae was naturally still more difficult (see pp.
229-33 and 150-52, above). Consequently the chorus is rarely removed from
the stage during the action. Two instances have already been mentioned
(p. 247, above). In the _Ajax_ advantage is taken of the withdrawal to
change the scene slightly; naturally a slight interval of time is also
supposed to elapse, but in this instance this is negligible and without
significance. In the _Eumenides_ the case is different. Here the scene
is not shifted a few rods merely but from Delphi clear to Athens. As the
crow flies this was a distance of about eighty miles and, in view of the
physical conditions and ancient methods of travel, would require two or
three days to traverse. Accordingly a considerable lacuna in the dramatic
time of the play must be assumed. What is still more remarkable is that,
except for the empty stage, the spectators are given nothing to help
“digest the abuse of distance.” At vs. 80 Apollo dispatches Orestes to
the city of Pallas, at vs. 179 he begins to drive the chorus of Furies
from his shrine, at vs. 234 he leaves the stage and the scene is empty.
Up to this point we are still at Delphi. In the very next verse (235)
Orestes rushes into the theater and exclaims, “O queen Athena, I come at
the bidding of Loxias.” He has reached Athens! In Euripides’ _Alcestis_
the chorus forms part of the queen’s funeral cortège and is absent during
vss. 747-860. Although it is not usually so regarded I am inclined to
think that there is a slight change of scene here (see p. 235, above);
there is also a slight condensation of time, but neither constitutes
a serious violation of these unities. This is one of the rare cases
where the withdrawal of the chorus resulted naturally from the normal
development of the plot. For if the choreutae had been present when
Heracles announced his intention of rescuing Alcestis from death (vss.
840 ff.) the poet must have invented a reason for their not reporting
this news to Admetus or have spoiled certain features of the finale. It
was much simpler to avoid the difficulty by allowing the chorus to do the
natural thing. In the following instances apparently no change of scene
or undue compression of time is involved. In Euripides’ _Helen_ (vs. 385)
the chorus accompany their mistress inside the palace to consult the
seeress Theonoe and re-enter at vs. 515. The only advantage that seems
to accrue from this maneuver is to prolong Menelaus’ uncertainty as to
the identity of his newly recovered wife. In Aristophanes’ _Women in
Council_ (vs. 311) the women of the chorus, disguised as men, leave for
the assembly in order to vote the management of the state into their own
hands, returning at vs. 478. Unless the playwright wished to have the
assembly scene enacted before the audience he had to withdraw the chorus.
As it is their doings are reported by a messenger (Chremes) in vss. 376
ff. In the pseudo-Euripidean _Rhesus_ the chorus is absent during vss.
565-674, being sent in front of the camp to receive Dolon (cf. vss. 522
ff.). The presence of Trojan guards would have prevented the intervening
scene between the Greek marauders, Odysseus and Diomedes. It will be
noted how few are the instances of the withdrawal of the chorus in the
extant plays and that the observance of the unities figures in just half
of them. In New Comedy the chorus appeared only between acts (see p. 145)
and it would have been feasible to assume a lacuna several times in each
play. That this was not done was probably due to the fact that the other
practice had become stereotyped and that concentration of action resulted
in greater unity of plot. Sometimes the stage is left empty _before the
entrance of the chorus_ by the retirement of all the actors on the scene
either between the prologue and the parodus or between monologues (or
dialogues) in the prologue. Euripides’ _Alcestis_ (vs. 77) furnishes an
example of the former and his _Iphigenia among the Taurians_ (vs. 66) of
the latter. So far as I have observed such pauses are not made use of to
accelerate the time unduly.

Since it was not often possible to suspend the audience’s sense of
time by removing the chorus, the poets had recourse to the next best
expedient, the choral odes. Inasmuch as several of these occurred in
every play, this artifice was far more available than the other. In many
respects the chorus moved upon a different plane from the actors, and
we are now dealing with one of these differences. As Professor Butcher
expressed it: “The interval covered by a choral ode is one whose value
is just what the poet chooses to make it. While the time occupied by
the dialogue has a relation more or less exact to real time, the choral
lyrics suspend the outward action of the play and carry us still farther
away from the world of reality. What happens in the interval cannot be
measured by any ordinary reckoning; it is much or little as the needs
of the piece demand. A change of place directly obtrudes itself on the
senses, but time is only what it appears to the mind. The imagination
travels easily over many hours; and in the Greek drama the time that
elapses during the songs of the chorus is entirely idealized” (_op.
cit._, p. 293). Thus the choral songs were roughly equivalent to the
modern intermission, and after them the action is often farther advanced
than the actual time required for chanting them would warrant. For
example, during a single stasimon of Aeschylus’ _Suppliants_ (vss.
524-99) the Argive king must leave the scene, summon his subjects to
public assembly, state the object of the meeting, and allow discussion
before the final vote—all in time for Danaus to report the people’s
decision at the beginning of the following episode! An analogy to ancient
practice occurs in Shakespeare’s _The Winter’s Tale_, where Time as
Chorus announces the passage of sixteen years between Acts III and IV.

But at the same time that the chorus conferred this liberty it
restricted it. The presence of such a body of performers at all the
scenes of a play could seldom be entirely natural. Yet that the same
persons should be found standing about, in the same place, at various
intervals during the day is conceivable, though it does not often
happen. But that they should be found there at every moment chosen for
representation during weeks or months or years is inconceivable and
ridiculous. Only by shortening the supposed action of the piece and the
supposed lacunae in the plot could the convention be tolerated at all.
However, Professor Verrall was lacking in historical imagination when he
maintained that “the point at which the discrepancy between the facts
presented and the natural facts began to be flagrant and intolerable
was when the audience were told to pass in imagination _from day to
day_. Night is the great natural interrupter of actions and changer of
situations” (_op. cit._, p. 1). To the spoiled theatergoer of today this
would seem to be true. But the ancient drama knew no lighting effects
(see p. 224, above). On the stage day and night looked the same to them.
Scenes at midday, in the darkness of night, in the gloom of Hades, were
alike enacted in the glare of the sun. Ostensibly the entire action of
the anonymous _Rhesus_ and much of that in Euripides’ _Cyclops_ fell
within the hours of night, and characters frequently addressed the
heavenly constellations in (actual) daylight. So far were the playwrights
from avoiding the discrepancy involved in passing from one day to
another that in Terence’s translation of Menander’s _Self-Tormentor_,
when a night is supposed to elapse between Acts II and III, attention
is deliberately called to it by Chremes’ words, “It is beginning to
grow light here now” (vs. 410). In my opinion this play extends over
about as much time as the conditions which obtained in ancient drama
would normally allow; and it should be noted that it does not exceed the
twenty-four hours permitted by the unity of time.

In the third place, perhaps it is unnecessary to point out that
acceleration of time is possible in all drama quite apart from an empty
stage or choral songs. Instances can be cited even from dramatists who
owned no allegiance to the unities—note, for example, the striking of the
half-hour every twenty or twenty-five lines at the close of Marlowe’s
_Doctor Faustus_. In Aristophanes’ _Plutus_ the blind god is escorted
from the stage for a night’s treatment in the temple of Asclepius (vs.
626), the chorus remaining in its place but apparently not singing.[321]
At the very next verse one of the escort returns to announce that Plutus
has recovered his sight and to relate the events of the night! But
here again, despite the transition from one day to another, the action
does not exceed twenty-four hours. In the same writer’s _Acharnians_,
Amphitheus goes from Athens to Sparta and returns again during the
dialogue contained between vss. 133 and 174. There is no hint, however,
that his reappearance is premature or that his trip would occupy more
than the apparent space allotted it.

But neither the ordinary acceleration of time in drama nor the use of
stasima nor yet the stage left empty by the retirement of chorus and
actors tells the whole story of Greek practice. Nowadays the playbill
clearly informs us how much time has elapsed between acts, and the
piece is constructed accordingly. If a character in the third act has
occasion to refer to something which occurred in the first act ten
years or so ago he must not speak of it as if it happened yesterday.
Not so in ancient drama. The Greek audiences had no playbills, and
even the introductions to Greek plays prepared by Alexandrian scholars
contained no such information as this. I fancy that the Greek dramatist
never laid his finger upon a given line and said: “Here we must assume
a lapse of several days, or months, or years.” The events of a drama,
regardless of actualities, were conventionally treated as occupying no
more than twenty-four hours. A like convention was customary in the Greek
epic: when once a Homeric character was given a definite age or form
he maintained each unchanged throughout.[322] For example, Telemachus
is introduced in the first book of the _Odyssey_ as a young man just
reaching his majority, ready and anxious to assume the duties of manhood;
but nine years before, when he could not have been more than twelve
years of age, he is spoken of as just as old and as already a man among
men (cf. Book xi, vss. 185 f. and 449). Again, in the third book of the
_Iliad_, Helen is pictured in the prime of youth and beauty; ten years
later and thirty years after her elopement with Paris she is likened to
the same goddess as is the Maiden Nausicaa (cf. _Odyssey_ iv. 121 f.
and vi. 102 ff.). In Greek drama time relations are similarly ignored.
At the opening of Aeschylus’ _Agamemnon_ the watchman sights the signal
fire which announces the capture of Troy, and within a few hundred lines
Agamemnon has finished the sack, traversed the Aegean, and appeared
before his palace! No hint is given, however, that there is anything
unusual about all this; not a word[323] indicates that the action is
disconnected at any point.

This is the most flagrant instance, and I conceive that it is to be
interpreted as follows: The performance of Greek drama in the fifth
century was continuous in the sense that with negligible exceptions (see
pp. 250 f., above) actors or chorus or both were constantly before the
audience. Notice that this is not the same as saying that the _time_
of the plays was continuous. When critically examined it is found to
have been interrupted by numerous gaps, as we have already seen and
shall see again. But the continuity of performance gave a _semblance_
of continuity also to the action. Therefore when a modern playwright
like Pinero restricts his action to one day and represents the lapse
of several hours by the fall of the curtain between acts, he does not
thereby observe the unity of time in the Greek sense. The dramatic events
were tacitly treated by the poets as if they occupied no more than a day
and were so accepted by the public. By “tacitly” I mean that if such
crowding involved a physical or moral impossibility the dramatists never
stooped to apologize or explain but placed their events in juxtaposition
just the same. In Plautus’ _Captives_, Philocrates travels from Aetolia
(the scene of action) to Elis and back again between vss. 460 and 768.
In real life such a trip would have required several days, but in the
play it consumes less than one! Do we positively know this? Beyond the
shadow of a doubt. A parasite is introduced at intervals during the play
scheming to be invited to a meal. He is first seen at vs. 69 and does not
get a satisfactory invitation until vs. 897. A more detailed statement
would show conclusively that the same day’s meal is under discussion
throughout. Moreover, this is no mere _lapsus calami_, such as a few
phrases which are found in an opposite sense,[324] but is unmistakable
in its import and is closely interwoven with the plot. If anyone feels
amazed at so deliberate a contradiction he may console himself with a
study of the use of “double time” in Shakespeare. It would be possible,
but is quite unnecessary, to cite other plays in which restriction of
time to a single day is indicated with sufficient exactness. Of course
the Greek dramatists did not consistently introduce references to the
precise date or to the time of day. In general they were wise enough to
act upon the principle which Corneille[325] expressed as follows: “Above
all I would leave the length of the action to the imagination of the
hearers, and never determine the time, if the subject does not require
it.... What need is there to mark at the opening of the play that the sun
is rising, that it is noon at the third act, and sunset at the end of the
last?”

It is somewhat remarkable that Professor Verrall, who fully recognized
the dependence of this unity upon local conditions and published
eminently sensible observations on the subject, nevertheless felt
constrained to challenge the obvious interpretation of two plays in which
a glaring violation of the unity of time occurs. In the _Agamemnon_ he
supposed the watchman and the populace (including the chorus) to be
misinformed as to the meaning of the beacon and that it really served to
Clytemnestra, Aegisthus, and their supporters as a warning of Agamemnon’s
being close at hand! His elucidation of Euripides’ _Andromache_ was
still more ingenious and complicated.[326] But to bolster up such
interpretations Mr. Verrall ought to have explained away all similar
instances as well—to explain, for example, how in Euripides’ _Suppliants_
an Attic army can march from Eleusis to the vicinity of Thebes and fight
a battle there, and how tidings of the victory can be brought back to
Eleusis, all between vss. 598 and 634, which, as Dryden[327] expressed
it, “is not for every mile a verse.” Nevertheless not the slightest
attention is paid to such patent impossibilities, and in every case the
whole action is unmistakably supposed to fall within a day.

In view of the foregoing it is not surprising that Aristotle does mention
the unity of time, though only incidentally. His exact language is:
“Tragedy and epic differ, again, in their length: for tragedy endeavors,
so far as possible, to keep within a single circuit of the sun (περίοδος
ἡλίου), or but slightly to exceed this limit; whereas the epic action
has no limits of time.”[328] “Endeavors” (πειρᾶται) was mistranslated
as _doit_ by some French writers. Aristotle rather commends the unity
of time as a rough generalization which works out well in practice
than enjoins it as an invariable rule. Actually the restriction was
further reduced, in most cases, to the hours of daylight, and Dacier
even maintained that περίοδος ἡλίου means no more than twelve hours.
But Aristophanes’ _Plutus_ and Terence’s _Self-Tormentor_ (see pp. 253,
above) furnish clear examples of dramatic action beginning in the late
afternoon of one day and not concluding until the next day.

It remains to consider some of the expedients which the poets found
useful in solving the difficulties (both of time and place) caused by
local conditions. In the first place the practice of writing a series
of three plays on the same general subject (see p. 198, above) often
enabled the playwright to distribute his incidents in different places
and time-spheres without loss of verisimilitude, for a whole trilogy
was no longer than the average modern play, and each tragedy would thus
correspond to a single act and, since the chorus was withdrawn at the
close of each play in the trilogy and its place taken by another entirely
different, changes of time and place between plays were absolutely
without restriction. Thus Scythia of Aeschylus’ _Prometheus Bound_
becomes Caucasus in the second piece in the trilogy, the _Prometheus
Unbound_; in the former was shown the binding of the Titan and in the
latter his release, and he is said to have been bound for 30,000 years.
All but two days of this time elapses between plays! In Aeschylus’
Orestean trilogy the scene of the _Agamemnon_ and _Libation-Bearers_ is
laid in Argos; that of the _Eumenides_ in Delphi and Athens. Several
years are supposed to pass by in the two interims.

But even Aeschylus did not always employ the trilogic form, and
Sophocles and Euripides rarely did. When, therefore, the three or
four plays in each series were severally devoted to utterly unrelated
material, it sometimes became necessary to bring almost as many events
within the scope of one play as would otherwise be dealt with in a whole
trilogy. Inasmuch as a large fraction of these events could not possibly
be conceived of as taking place in the same locality or within the same
day, it was imperative either to exclude them or to include them in some
indirect fashion. Now two striking peculiarities of Euripidean technique
were admirably adapted to help solve these difficulties. His prologues
regularly take the form of a monologue, which, with scant regard for
dramatic illusion, rehearses the story of the myth up to the point where
the play begins. Again, Euripides’ dramas frequently terminate with
the epiphany of a deity. This device was the accustomed recourse of
unskilful playwrights, when their plots had become complicated beyond
the possibility of disentanglement by natural means, in order that a
god’s fiat might resolve all difficulties. It has often been charged
that this was also Euripides’ motive, but most unjustly (see pp. 293
ff., below). He rather “wished, by the help of a divine foreknowledge,
to put before the spectators such future events or unknown circumstances
as should settle their minds, satisfy all curiosity, and connect the
subject of the piece with subsequent events or even with the times of
living men.”[329] Thus in Euripides’ _Andromache_ the complications of
the plot are entirely solved before Thetis’ appearance at vs. 1231,
and she merely gives directions for Neoptolemus’ burial and prophesies
the future of Peleus, Andromache, and Molossus, and of the latter’s
posterity. When these two pieces of technique were combined in the same
play, the prologue, the body of the tragedy, and the epilogue sometimes
corresponded roughly to the successive dramas of a whole trilogy. This
appears most clearly in the case of Euripides’ _Electra_ and Aeschylus’
Orestean trilogy. The opening monologue of the former (vss. 1-53)
passes in rapid review the Greek expedition against Troy, the murder of
Agamemnon, and the present fate of his children. With the exception of
the last item, which is brought out in the second play of the _Oresteia_,
these are the matters contained in the prologue, which naturally is
comparatively short, and in the action of Aeschylus’ _Agamemnon_. The
body of the _Electra_ corresponds to the second tragedy in the trilogy,
the _Libation-Bearers_. At the _Electra’s_ conclusion (vs. 1238) Castor
as _deus ex machina_ forecasts among other things the acquittal of
Orestes at Athens, which is the theme of Aeschylus’ _Eumenides_. Whatever
other explanations, therefore, may be advanced for Euripides’ prologues
and epilogues (see pp. 294 f. and 299 f., below) this consideration must
also be allowed a certain weight, viz., that they permitted him to bring
events of the most diverse nature within the scope of his piece without
violating the unities of time and place.

A fourth device looking to the same ends consisted in setting
conversations at times and places which would naturally be different.
Even such a master of dramatic technique as Sophocles represented Orestes
as communicating to his fellow-conspirators the result of his inquiry
at Delphi only after they had reached Argos (_Electra_, vss. 32 ff.),
and as waiting to formulate a definite plan of action until they were in
the most unfavorable place in all the world for such a purpose—before
Clytemnestra’s palace (vss. 15 ff.). The latter incongruity does not
occur in Euripides’ version of the same story because the scene of his
_Electra_ is laid, not in the city of Argos, but before Electra’s hut in
the country. The device under consideration was conveniently supplemented
by the convention that if two or more characters enter the stage together
no conversation is thought of as passing between them until they have
come within the hearing of the audience (see p. 310, below). It will be
seen that the passage just cited from Sophocles’ _Electra_ conforms to
this rule. Another instance occurs in Euripides’ _Madness of Heracles_,
vss. 822 ff. Iris appears above Heracles’ palace with Madness, whom she
orders to incite the hero to the murder of his children. Madness protests
but is overborne and forced to perform her bidding. Though Iris and
Madness must have come a considerable distance together, all discourse
between them is apparently postponed until they reach their destination.
Furthermore, these instructions would naturally have been given to
Madness elsewhere and somewhat earlier. In that case the audience must
have lost an effective scene. The device discussed in this paragraph
enabled the poet to circumvent the unities and place the scene before his
audience; and the convention which I have mentioned preserved it for them
in its entirety.

We have seen that the unities of time and place are largely due to the
striving for illusion in a theater comparatively bare of scenery and
of facilities for scene-shifting. Conversely, their observance in the
modern theater with its ample scenic provision would naturally militate
against the scenic extravagance and actualism of which the present-day
theatocracy is so enamored. Thus it would seem that the much-abused
unities are not without a meaning and truly artistic tendency even
today, for some of the most significant influences in contemporaneous
staging are directed against excesses along these lines. Even a modern
producer, Henry W. Savage, included the following in his advice to a
young playwright: “Do not distribute your scenes so widely that you have
one on an island, another at Herald Square, and a third at Chicago. Make
the action of your play take place all in one day, if possible”[330]—in
other words the unity of time expressly and an approximation to the unity
of place. Ibsen surely retained no theatrical conventions merely because
they were old; yet he usually observed the unities. A recent critic has
written: “Though the unities of time and place were long ago exploded
as binding principles—indeed, they never had any authority in English
drama—yet it is true that a broken-backed action, whether in time or
space, ought, so far as possible, to be avoided. An action with a gap of
twenty years in it may be all very well in melodrama and romance, but
scarcely in higher and more serious types of drama.”[331]

The unity of action is the only one that is universal, since it alone
springs from the inmost nature of the drama. Yet even here local
conditions make themselves felt. The modern playwright, free (if he
pleases and has a producer complaisant enough) to change the scene ten
times within a single act and with superior facilities for motivating
entrances and exits, delights in shifting different sets of characters
back and forth and thus secures an alternation of light and shade, an
intermingling of comedy and tragedy quite beyond the ancient dramatist’s
reach. The preceding discussion has shown the immobility of the ancient
theater in these respects and, consequently, one reason why the Greeks
ruthlessly excluded everything that was not strictly germane to their
action (see also p. 201, above).

This unity, it is needless to say, plays an important part in
Aristotle’s _Poetics_. He recognized that “plot is the first essential
and soul of tragedy and that character comes second.”[332] The most
lengthy statement runs as follows: “Let us now discuss the proper
construction of the plot, as that is both the first and the most
important thing in tragedy. We have laid it down that tragedy is an
imitation of an action that is complete and whole, having a certain
magnitude, for there is also a whole that is wanting in magnitude. Now a
whole is that which has a beginning, a middle, and an end. A beginning
is that which is not itself necessarily after anything else and after
which something else naturally is or comes to be; an end, on the
contrary, is that which itself naturally follows some other thing either
as its necessary or usual consequent, and has nothing else after it;
and a middle is that which is both itself after one thing and has some
other thing after it. Accordingly, well-constructed plots must neither
begin nor end at haphazard points, but must conform to the types just
mentioned.”[333] These principles were excellently restated by Lowell:

    In a play we not only expect a succession of scenes, but that
    each scene should lead by a logic more or less stringent, if
    not to the next, at any rate to something that is to follow,
    and that all should contribute their fraction of impulse
    towards the inevitable catastrophe. That is to say, the
    structure should be organic, with a necessary and harmonious
    connection and relation of parts, and not merely mechanical
    with an arbitrary or haphazard joining of one part to another.
    It is in the former sense alone that any production can be
    called a work of art.[334]

Though it is now admitted on all sides that the unity of action is the
_sine qua non_ of dramatic composition, many fail to realize the meaning
and extent of its limitation. Aristotle indicated a mistaken notion
current in his day, and likewise in ours, in the following words: “The
unity of a plot does not consist, as some suppose, in its having one man
as its subject. An infinite multitude of things befall that one man, some
of which it is impossible to reduce to unity, and so, too, there are many
actions of one man which cannot be made to form one action. Hence, the
error, as it appears, of all the poets who have composed a _Heracleid_,
a _Theseid_, or similar poems. They suppose that, because Heracles was
one man, the story also of Heracles must be one story.”[335] Freytag
discussed the matter with keen discrimination and exemplified it by
showing how Shakespeare remodeled the more or less chaotic story of Romeo
and Juliet’s love into a unified plot whose incidents follow one another
almost as inexorably as Fate. The passage is unfortunately too long for
quotation here, but is highly instructive.[336]

The same reasoning reveals the shortcoming in Professor Lounsbury’s
contention: “What, indeed, is the objection to this mixture of the
serious and the comic in the same play? By it is certainly represented,
as it is not in pure comedy or pure tragedy, the life we actually live
and the mingled elements that compose it.... As there was no question
that sadness and mirth were constantly intermixed in real life, it was
impossible to maintain that the illegitimacy of this form of dramatic
composition was due to its improbability.”[337] The word “pure” gives
away the whole case. Aristotle would have to grant that Shakespeare’s
plays are admirable, even sublime; but he could hardly admit that they
were “pure” tragedies or “pure” comedies, however legitimate in other
respects. They fall short in the quality which Mr. Albert H. Brown placed
in the forefront of his definition: “A great drama is a _clearly focused_
picture of human conditions.”

Aristotle also pointed out that epic poetry has an advantage in that
it can present many events simultaneously transacted, while the drama
is restricted to but one.[338] A curious violation of this self-evident
principle occurred in a recent American play. Toward the end of Act II
in Eugene Walter’s _Paid in Full_, Emma Brooks is disclosed making an
appointment with Captain Williams over the telephone. In the next act we
are transferred to Captain Williams’ quarters, and the dramatic clock has
in the meanwhile been turned back some fifteen minutes, for presently
the telephone bell rings and the same appointment is made over again. In
other words, Act III partially overlaps Act II in time, but the scene is
different. It can scarcely be denied that the dramatic situation has been
enhanced by this device, but this gain has been secured at the sacrifice
of verisimilitude and dramatic illusion. Such “cut-backs” may be all very
well in moving pictures, but they hardly have a place in spoken drama.

Thus, the Greek masters were so far from evolving unities out of
their inner consciousness or from observing them invariably that they
constantly violated the unities of time and place in both letter and
spirit. Their practice throughout simply reacted to theatrical conditions
as they found them. It has remained for their successors, whose theater
has for the most part been quite dissimilar, to observe the unities
with a literalness and exactness such as never characterized the great
dramatists of Greece. That both ancients and moderns have produced
masterpieces under these restrictions is, of course, beyond dispute. In
fact, some of our most impressive plays of recent date such as Kennedy’s
_Servant in the House_, have conformed to them. That many modern plays
would have been improved by observing them is doubtless also true. Even
so uncompromising an admirer of Shakespeare as Professor Lounsbury[339]
wrote:

    Let it not be imagined, however, that any attempt is made here
    to deny the merit of modern plays which observe the unities,
    or to maintain that a powerful drama cannot be produced upon
    the lines they prescribe. Such a contention would be only
    repeating on the side of the opponents of this doctrine the
    erroneous assumptions which its advocates put forth. He who
    ventures to take a position so extreme can hardly escape a
    feeling of serious discomfort if called upon, in consequence,
    to decry the productions of Corneille, Racine, and Molière,
    to say nothing of some of the most brilliant pieces which
    have adorned the English stage. Nor, furthermore, need it be
    denied that there are conditions in which the observance of the
    unities may be a positive advantage. Especially will this be
    the case when the characters are few and all the incidents of
    the plot are directed to the accomplishment of a single result.
    The concentration of the action is likely to contribute, in
    such pieces, to the effect of the representation. He who sets
    out to imitate the simplicity of the Greek drama will usually
    find himself disposed to adopt, as far as possible, its form.
    Within its limitations great work can be accomplished by the
    drama which regards the unities, and, to some extent, it will
    be great work because of its limitations.

But that the unities should be arbitrarily imposed upon every drama
without exception is absurd, since the theatrical conditions that called
them forth are no longer the same. That Aeschylus and Sophocles, if
present with us in the flesh, would avail themselves of the greater
flexibility and adaptability of the modern theater I cannot doubt. At any
rate that restless spirit, Euripides, would certainly have gloried in its
freedom.

As a cumulative result of the conditions already described the action
of a Greek drama was restricted to the culmination alone, corresponding
to the fifth act of most modern plays. Though we have seen that the
Greek poets arbitrarily juxtaposed, as if within the confines of a
sun’s circuit, events which were actually separated by considerable
intervals, yet even the widest license would hardly permit a whole series
of transactions, of sufficient dignity and importance to be chosen for
tragic representation, to be compressed within a single day and limited
to a single spot. As Dryden[340] expressed it, the ancient playwrights
“set the audience, as it were, at the post where the race is to be
concluded; and, saving them the tedious expectation of seeing the poet
set out and ride the beginning of the course, they suffer you not to
behold him, till he is in sight of the goal, and just upon you.” Thus in
Aeschylus’ _Suppliants_ we see nothing of the unwelcome suit of Aegyptus’
sons and of the events which led the daughters of Danaus to take refuge
in flight. All this lies in the past and is brought before us indirectly.
The action begins when the Danaids have reached another land and are on
the point of being overtaken by their cousins. Similarly, in Euripides’
_Alcestis_ we learn by hearsay the long story of Apollo’s servitude at
the court of Admetus, of his providing a way of escape from death for the
king, and of the latter’s disheartening search for a substitute. Only the
final stage in the action, the day of the queen’s self-immolation and
rescue, is chosen for actual representation. The same situation recurs
in almost every piece. Of course in trilogies it was possible to select
three different time-spheres and three different localities for the
dramatic action. But here again only the crests of three crises in the
story were put before the spectators’ eyes; all the rest was narrated. So
invariable a method of attack would seem monotonous to us today, but its
successful employment by Ibsen and many another in modern times proves
that there is nothing blameworthy in the practice per se.

Finally, since the dramatic action was confined to a single day (however
elastic) at the culmination of the story, it was rarely possible for the
dramatis personae to experience any particular change or development
of character during the course of the play. This fixity of type was
not only a natural result of theatrical conditions in ancient times
and of the use of masks but was also in thorough accord with Homeric
conventions (see pp. 254 f., above). Moreover, it harmonized completely
with the Greek fondness for schematization. Horace’s words in his _Ars
Poetica_ are entirely Hellenic in spirit: “Either follow tradition,
or invent that which shall be self-consistent. In the former case,
let Achilles be impatient, irascible, ruthless, keen...; let Medea be
untamed and unconquerable, Ino tearful, Ixion treacherous, Io ever
roving, and Orestes in sorry plight. In the latter case, keep the
character to the end of the play as it was at the beginning and let it
be consistent” (vss. 119 ff.). All this implies more than we would think
desirable today. Not only was a positive development into a character
seemingly inharmonious with that seen at first rarely possible, but
the singleness of purpose in ancient plays, which has been called the
unity of mood (see p. 201, above), crowded out incidents which might
have revealed other phases, no matter how consistent, of a dramatic
personage’s character. The taste of some critics objected to even the
slight modifications in rôle which ancient conditions did permit. For
example, to modern readers the manner in which Medea, in Euripides’
tragedy of that name, wavers between love for her children and the
desire to punish her recreant husband by murdering them is esteemed one
of the finest touches in ancient drama. But the Greek argument which
is prefixed to this play reports that “they blame Euripides because he
did not maintain Medea’s rôle but allowed her to burst into tears as
she plotted against Jason and his second wife.” Again, so excellent a
critic as Aristotle cites the title rôle in Euripides’ _Iphigenia at
Aulis_ as an example of inconsistency,[341] inasmuch as the Iphigenia
who pleads for her life at vss. 1211 ff. in no wise resembles her later
self, who willingly approaches the altar. To modern feeling, since the
change is psychologically possible and is plausibly motived by the sudden
realization that her death can serve her country, it seems entirely
unobjectionable. But these two passages and the usual practice of the
Greek stage reveal a discrepancy between the ancient and the modern
points of view. The simplicity of character-drawing which resulted from
Greek methods is strikingly described, in a different connection, by Mr.
Cornford:

    Agamemnon, for instance, is simply Hybris typified in a
    legendary person. He is a hero flown with “insolence” (the
    pride and elation of victory), and that is all that can be
    said of him. He is not, like a character in Ibsen, a complete
    human being with a complex personality, a center from which
    relations radiate to innumerable points of contact in a
    universe of indifferent fact. He has not a continuous history:
    nothing has ever happened to him except the conquest of Troy
    and the sacrifice of Iphigenia; nothing ever could happen to
    him except Pride’s fall and the stroke of the axe. As we see
    him he is not a man, but a single state of mind, which has
    never been preceded by other states of mind (except one, at the
    sacrifice in Aulis), but is isolated, without context, margin,
    or atmosphere. Every word he says, in so far as he speaks for
    himself and not for the poet, comes straight out of that state
    of mind and expresses some phase of it. He has a definite
    relation to Cassandra, a definite relation to Clytemnestra;
    but no relation to anything else. If he can be said to have a
    _character_ at all it consists solely of certain defects which
    make him liable to Insolence; if he has any _circumstances_,
    they are only those which prompt him to his besetting
    passion.[342]




    There seems no human thought so primitive as to have lost its
    bearing on our own thought, nor so ancient as to have broken
    its connection with our own life.—E. B. TYLOR.

CHAPTER VII

THE INFLUENCE OF NATIONAL CUSTOMS AND IDEAS[343]


It is unnecessary to state that the differences between ancient life in
Greece and modern life in America and Western Europe are endless. To
attempt to enumerate them all would require a separate volume. In the
present chapter I shall undertake to touch upon some of the features
which more intimately affected Greek drama.

First of all a modern can scarcely avoid a feeling of surprise that
plays were almost always brought out in competition; but no instinct
was more thoroughly imbedded in the Greek consciousness than this. From
the time of the first celebration of the Olympian games in 776 B.C. or
before, a contest of some kind formed, to their minds, the most natural
setting for the display of athletic, musical, and literary skill.
Associated with this fact was another, viz., that the prizes awarded upon
these occasions were usually more honorific than intrinsically valuable.
The victors in the Olympian games received a garland of wild olive and a
palm branch. It is true that the delighted fellow-citizens of the victors
usually supplemented the award by something more substantial, but the
fact remains that these trivial objects were the sole official reward for
many arduous months of preparation and training. In like manner we are
informed by the most ancient tradition that the original prize in tragic
contests was a goat (see p. 13 f. above); and what is more, it is said
to have been customary for the victorious poet to offer up his prize in
immediate sacrifice to the god of the festival. After the reorganization
of the City Dionysia about 501 B.C., however, it seems likely that
pecuniary awards were established for the tragic victors. Though we are
in ignorance as to their amount, some notion can be formed from the
fact that prizes of ten, eight, and six minae,[344] respectively, were
granted dithyrambic victors at the Piraeus festival toward the close
of the fourth century B.C. Three prizes seem to have been available in
tragedy at the City Dionysia also, so that every contestant was sure of
some compensation. In other words, to be chosen to compete at all was
sufficient honor to entitle even the poorest of the three to a suitable
reward. Only the winner of the first prize, however, was technically
regarded as “victor.” In comedy, according to tradition, the original
prize was a jar of wine, which likewise gave place to financial awards
after comedy came under state control at the City Dionysia of 486 B.C.
These arrangements were extended to the Lenaea, when first comedy and
then tragedy were introduced there (see p. 119, above), and to contests
between actors, as these were established at the two festivals (see p.
202, above). The successful playwrights, actors, and “choregi” (see
below) seem to have been crowned with garlands of ivy by the presiding
archon—the archon eponymus at the City Dionysia and the king archon at
the Lenaea.

In several particulars the government under which the Athenians lived
was indirect in its provisions. For example, though valuable mines
belonged to the state, they were not worked by government officials
but were leased to private parties. Accordingly, although the dramatic
festivals were under the direct control of the state, the financial
management was relegated to lessees, who agreed to keep the theater in
repair and to pay a stipulated sum into the public treasury in return for
the privilege of collecting an admission fee. During the fourth century
B.C. the lessees of the Piraeus theater paid thirty-three minae annually.
This system explains why the authorities, when they wished to enable even
the poorest citizens to attend the dramatic exhibitions, did not simply
throw open the doors to all or issue passes. Instead, toward the end of
the fifth century it was provided that any citizen might receive two
obols from the “theoric” fund in order to pay his own way into the day’s
performances (see p. 120, above).

Another instance of the indirect exercise of governmental functions is
seen in the practice of various kinds of “public service” (λειτουργία).
Thus when the Board of Generals had provided the hull of a warship
(“trireme”) they did not proceed also to rig it and to hire a commander.
Instead some rich citizen was required to contribute toward its rigging
and upkeep and to command it for one year. This obligation was laid
upon the wealthier citizens in rotation; and if anyone considered that
he was being called upon too frequently or that someone of greater
substance was escaping his just responsibilities, he could challenge
him to an exchange of property (ἀντίδοσις). According to law the man
so challenged was restricted to the two options of either assuming the
burden or trading estates. This system of liturgies applied to the
maintenance not only of the naval service but also of dramatic and
dithyrambic contests, the torch race, etc. It was provided that no one
need act as trierarch more frequently than once in three years, bear any
liturgy two successive years, or two liturgies in the same year. But
it was the glory of Athenian citizenship that they served oftener and
spent their means more generously than the law demanded. The bearers of
the theatrical liturgies were called _choregi_ (χορηγοί), and there was
no surer method of displaying one’s wealth and of currying favor with
the populace than by voluntary and lavish assumption of the choregia.
The evidence is not sufficient to establish just how the charges were
distributed. The state seems to have paid the actors, and the choregus
to have been responsible for assembling and hiring a body of choreutae,
engaging a trainer to drill them, purchasing or renting costumes for the
chorus, employing mute characters, providing showy extras of various
kinds, etc. As regards the flute-player a distinction was perhaps drawn
between the dithyrambic and dramatic contests, the state employing him in
the former and the choregus in the latter. The question of an additional
actor has already been discussed (see pp. 172-82, above). A speaker in
one of Lysias’ orations[345] claims to have spent, within a period of
seven years, thirty minae for a tragic choregia, sixteen minae for one in
comedy, fifty minae for a dithyrambic chorus of men, fifteen minae for
a chorus of boys, three hundred and sixty minae for six trierarchies,
twelve minae as gymnasiarch, etc. Since this man’s ambition led him to
do more than his share, these outlays are probably somewhat larger than
they need to have been; in fact, he declares that the law would not have
required of him one-fourth as much. But in addition to indicating how
much some were willing to spend, the figures are valuable also as showing
the comparative expense of the different events. Needless to state, a
poet’s chance of victory was considerably affected by the wealth and
disposition of his choregus. An ambitious and lavish man like Nicias, who
is declared by Plutarch[346] never to have been worsted in any of his
numerous choregias, could manifestly do much to retrieve a poor play.
But woe betide the playwright whose success was largely in the keeping
of a sponsor who would spend no more than law and public opinion could
wring from him. In 405 and 404 B.C., while Athens was experiencing a
financial stringency just before the close of the Peloponnesian War,
the number of choregi at the City Dionysia was temporarily doubled, so
that two synchoregi might divide between them the burden which normally
fell to one man. Finally about 308 B.C. the dearth of rich men caused
the abandonment of the choregic system and the annual appointment of an
_agonothete_ (ἀγωνοθέτης) or “master of contests,” whose own resources
were supplemented by a state subsidy and who assumed entire control and
financial responsibility for all the dithyrambic and dramatic contests at
the festival.

One of the most characteristic features of the Athenian democracy was
the large rôle assigned to the lot in the selection of officials. For
example, in Aristotle’s day the nine archons were chosen by lot from five
hundred men, who had themselves been previously chosen by lot, fifty from
each of the ten tribes. Whatever may have been the other objects of this
system, at least one was the prevention of bribery and manipulation;
and without a doubt this was the motive which led to the use of the lot
in theatrical matters. Thus the judges in the contests seem, though the
scheme is largely conjectural and depends upon insufficient notices, to
have been selected and to have rendered decisions somewhat as follows:
Some days before the festival a certain number of names was taken from
each tribe and deposited in ten sealed urns in the Acropolis. Just before
the contest began, these vessels were brought into the theater and the
presiding archon drew one name from each tribal urn. The men so chosen
came forward and swore to judge truly. When the performances were over,
each judge wrote down his verdict and the ten ballots were placed in
a single urn. The archon now drew out half of these, which were alone
used in arriving at the ultimate decision! So cumbersome a system can
be justified only by its results; and it must be allowed that, so far
as we can now determine, no poet suffered any great injustice from its
operation. The playwrights usually won whom later critics were unanimous
in considering the greatest. Each of the tragic triad wrote about one
hundred plays: Aeschylus, whose career fell before the admission of
tragedy to the Lenaea, gained thirteen victories at the City Dionysia;
Sophocles, eighteen City and at least two Lenaean victories; and
Euripides, fifteen (or possibly only five) victories at both festivals
(see p. 325, below). It must be remembered that several plays would be
simultaneously crowned at each victory in tragedy (see p. 198, above).
The most astounding reversal occurred when Philocles, Aeschylus’ mediocre
nephew, defeated Sophocles’ didascalic group in which was included his
_Oedipus the King_, perhaps the greatest tragedy of ancient times!
However, this apparent lapse of judgment is possibly to be explained by
the factor mentioned in the last paragraph, a parsimonious choregus.

The lot was employed also in another connection. Immediately after the
beginning of each civil year in Hecatombaeon (July), the archon eponymus
and the king archon attended to the appointment of tragic choregi for the
City Dionysia and the Lenaean festival, respectively. During the fifth
century they chose the comic choregi as well, but Aristotle informs us
that in his day their selection was managed by the tribes.[347] After
this detail had been arranged the archons proceeded to “grant a chorus”
to a suitable number of playwrights. For this purpose doubtless an
untried poet was required to submit a more or less finished copy of what
he wished to produce; from seasoned writers probably the presentation of
a scenario or even less was deemed sufficient. At any rate Dr. Ruppel has
shown that in Aristophanes’ comedies the plot was sometimes essentially
modified by or even integrally depended upon events which took place
but a few weeks before the festival. It is evident that the archons
exercised considerable discretion in selecting the playwrights; at least
we are told that no less a personage than Sophocles was once refused a
chorus when one was granted to an obscure Gnesippus.[348] When poets and
choregi had finally been chosen, the troublesome task of matching them
still confronted the officials. Naturally the important consequences
which we have seen to grow out of the assignment of a generous or
niggardly choregus to a poet served only to enhance the difficulty of
the situation. And in the light of what has just been said concerning
the Athenian fondness for the lot, it is not surprising that the problem
was met by its use. After the actors passed from private to public
management, about 449 B.C. (see p. 183, above), the lot was employed
also to distribute the protagonists among the dramatists. In the fourth
century the more equitable system became possible of permitting each
protagonist to appear in a single one of each tragedian’s three plays
(see p. 185, above).

One of the most prominent traits of the Greek, and especially of the
Athenian, character was litigiousness. Inasmuch as from the time of
Pericles citizens of Attica received a slight stipend for serving upon
juries, which ranged from 201 to 2,500 in membership and sometimes
reached an aggregate of 6,000, there was scarcely an Athenian but
was personally acquainted with courtroom procedure and not a few
practically supported themselves in this way. Moreover, this situation
was intensified by the fact that the fifth century witnessed the rise
of formal oratory at Athens and its exploitation by numerous rhetorical
and sophistic teachers. It is hardly possible that all these influences
should have allowed contemporaneous drama to escape unscathed. Their
first effect is seen in the actual introduction of a courtroom scene,
as in Aeschylus’ _Eumenides_, in which Orestes is put on trial before
the Council of the Areopagus for having murdered his mother. Athena is
the presiding judge, Apollo the attorney for the defense, and the chorus
of Furies conducts the prosecution. Aristophanes satirized the Athenian
weakness in his _Wasps_, the chorus of which appeared in the guise of
those quarrelsome insects; and that inveterate juryman, Philocleon, was
provided with a domestic court wherein one dog was duly arraigned by
another for having pilfered a round of Sicilian cheese! Again, certain
scenes in other plays, though not ostensibly placed in the courtroom, are
practically treated as if they were. For example, in Euripides’ _Trojan
Women_, Menelaus meets his truant wife for the first time since her
elopement. Will he pardon or slay her? Helen herself naturally hopes to
be forgiven and restored to her husband’s favor; but the Trojan women,
who hold her responsible for their country’s downfall, wish condign
punishment to be meted out to her. Consequently the play degenerates
into a quasi-trial in which Menelaus presides as judge, Hecabe, ex-queen
of Troy, represents the prosecution, and Helen pleads her own cause. In
the third place, when a court scene was out of the question a debate of
some kind was often dragged in. Of course “struggle” is of the essence of
drama and a formal “agon” was by derivation almost indispensable in Old
Comedy (see pp. 42-44), but I am now referring to something different.
Perhaps the most glaring instance is found in Euripides’ _Madness of
Heracles_ (vss. 158 ff.). Lycus has resolved upon Amphitryon’s speedy
death, yet they both stop to argue whether it be better to fight with
the spear or the bow! Finally, since in the law courts the addresses
of the contending parties were equalized by means of the “water-clock”
(the _clepsydra_), it is not surprising that the speeches of sharply
contrasted characters in tragedy are occasionally made of exactly the
same length. The best example occurs in Euripides’ _Hecabe_, where
Polymestor’s speech of fifty-one lines is exactly balanced by that of
the Trojan queen (cf. vss. 1132-82 and 1187-1237). In Aeschylus’ _Seven
against Thebes_ there are seven pairs of contrasted speeches, two of
which are exactly equal (cf. vss. 422-36 = 437-51, and 568-96 = 597-625,
and two others are nearly so; cf. vss. 375-96 ≠ 397-416 and 631-52 ≠
653-76). If we had before us the _ipsissima verba_ of the tragic writers
it is likely that these and some other minor inequalities would be
resolved. Thus in Euripides’ _Medea_, Jason speaks fifty-four lines in
reply to the heroine’s fifty-five (cf. vss. 465-519 ≠ 522-75); but there
is some reason for believing that vs. 468 is interpolated. Again, in
Sophocles’ _Antigone_ the speeches of Creon and Haemon would precisely
correspond (cf. vss. 639-80 and 683-723), if we suppose a verse to have
dropped out after vs. 690. In conclusion it ought to be stated that
such balancing was quite congenial to the fondness for symmetry which
characterized the Greek genius in every field of endeavor.

Perhaps the one idea which was most fixed in the popular consciousness
of ancient Greece was that of Nemesis, the goddess who punished the
overweening presumption arising from long-continued prosperity and
success. Herodotus’ history exemplifies the notion both in its main
theme, the crushing defeat which brought Persia’s long series of
victories to a close, and in numerous digressions, such as the story of
Polycrates and his ring. Accordingly, when Phrynichus in his _Phoenician
Women_ and afterward Aeschylus in his _Persians_ undertook to celebrate
the Persian rout they were careful to avoid a display of the pride
which had ruined the invading host, by laying the scene in the Orient
and exhibiting the mourning of Persia, not the triumph of Greece (see
p. 124, above). Again, in the seven pairs of contrasted speeches just
mentioned as occurring in Aeschylus’ _Seven against Thebes_, a messenger
states in turn the name of the Argive champion who is to assail each of
the seven gates of Thebes, describing his actions, words, the device
upon his shield, etc., and the king in a similar manner matches each
enemy with a warrior of his own. It is not without significance that to
a Greek mind “the boasts and blazons of the champions convict them of
presumption, and doom them beforehand to failure. The answers of Eteocles
are always right, take advantage of the enemy’s insolence, and secure
divine favour by studied moderation.”[349] Still again, in the same
playwright’s _Agamemnon_ appears an incident which to the uninitiated
modern reader seems forced and unworthy of the prominence and space
assigned to it. Clytemnestra has been untrue to her lord during his long
absence at Troy and is now prepared by her paramour’s help to murder him.
Agamemnon himself, thanks to the recent smiles of fortune, is in the sort
of position which would easily expose him to the vengeance of Nemesis.
In the play (vss. 905-57) Clytemnestra skilfully takes advantage of this
situation in order to array the powerful goddess upon her side. She urges
Agamemnon not to set his conquering foot upon the common earth but to
pass from his chariot into the palace over a purple tapestry. The king
shrinks from an act which would be more becoming to a god than a mortal,
but finally yields to his wife’s insistence. The result is that to a
Greek audience he would seem to invite and almost to deserve the doom
which his unfaithful spouse quickly brings upon him. These instances from
the many available suffice to indicate Greek feeling on the subject.

The poets of New Comedy leaned heavily upon the “long arm of
coincidence.” The young women who are the recipients of the gilded
youths’ favors are frequently found in the outcome to be free-born,
the children of respectable parents, and acceptable wives. In several
instances the victim of violence at some nocturnal festival has
unwittingly become the spouse of her ravisher. The situation is
aggravated by the unity of time. Men who have been absent from their
homes for months or years must some day return to their households,
pregnant women must at last be delivered of their offspring,
long-standing debts must finally fall due, and the escapades of spoiled
sons must at some time be brought to light and receive the attention
of “hard-hearted” parents. Coming singly, such occurrences occasion
no surprise. But when several of that sort are crowded into a period
of twenty-four hours or less in play after play, to our minds the
coincidence becomes well-nigh intolerable. It seems likely, however,
that the ancients regarded such concatenations of events with more
kindly eyes, for the reason that Chance or Fortune (Τύχη) was commonly
accepted as exercising supreme authority over the lives and fortunes of
men. This conception also helps to explain the curious immunity from
punishment which was usually enjoyed by the scheming slaves in comedy.
Of course to a race whose national characteristics were embodied in the
wily Odysseus, cleverness, however unscrupulous, always seemed to elevate
its practitioners above the rules of ordinary morality. But more. Just
as “in the days of the _Odyssey_ a man merely required to be skilful at
deceiving his fellows to become a favorite of Athena’s, so in the days of
New Comedy this quality gave him a claim to the favor of the queen of the
world—omnipotent Tyche.”[350]

It is not always realized how almost oriental was the seclusion in
which respectable women were kept at Athens during the period of its
greatness in drama. Respectable women of good family were not permitted
to leave their homes except for special reasons, nor to converse with
men other than near relatives or slaves. When it is remembered that
the physical arrangements of the Greek theaters did not readily admit
of interior scenes (see pp. 237 ff., above) it will be understood how
difficult it was for an ancient playwright to bring women of the better
class upon his stage. This applies particularly to comedy as being a more
accurate mirror of contemporaneous manners; in tragedy, as will presently
appear, it was counteracted by another factor. At weddings, funerals,
and religious festivals women, especially married women, were allowed
greater liberty than at other times. Thus, in Aristophanes’ _Women at
the Thesmophoria_ the coming of the _festa_ affords them an opportunity
of carrying on the business of the play. In the same writer’s _Women
in Council_ they act in secret and disguised as men until their coup
d’état has succeeded and the government has been voted into their hands.
The situation in Aristophanes’ _Lysistrata_ is quite as abnormal, being
nothing more or less than a “sex strike!” In more conventional plays the
speaking characters, apart from divinities, are practically restricted
to women of the demimonde, foreign residents (_metics_), female slaves,
those other virtuous but vulgar creatures whom poverty has compelled
to seek a livelihood in various business pursuits of the humbler sort,
and finally women advanced in years, shrewish in disposition, and
unattractive in person. The first and last types are especially common
in New Comedy, while Plautus’ _Persian_ is said to be unique in its
presentation of a chaste and free-born maiden in an active rôle.[351]
Even the girl who has excited the young man’s affections and whose
counterpart in modern drama would be a conspicuous figure is seldom seen
and is not always heard. The most that she seems normally capable of
doing is to ejaculate a cry of agony from behind the scenes at the moment
of childbirth. This is the more surprising since the fact of her Attic
citizenship is rarely established and sometimes is not even suspected
until the very close of the play. The poet’s consciousness of what he
intends to make of her—a free-born citizen and a legal wife—apparently
constrains him to protect her from an unconventionality of conduct which,
though suitable to her present condition, would afterward be looked back
upon with regret by herself, her husband and newly recovered relatives,
and even by the spectators themselves. Truth to tell the girls from whom
an Athenian was required to take his bride were scarcely fitted to be
his intellectual companions or to grace a dialogue in drama, while the
best of the courtesans could qualify in either capacity. According to
American notions the marriage of convenience arranged by the parents is
hardly warranted to produce domestic felicity. But the hero of Greek
comedy often selected a mistress for graces of mind and person and
afterward, when her legitimate birth was discovered, gladly made her
his wife. At least such matches ought to have resulted happily. Yet
surprisingly little is ever said of married bliss and affection arising
from any sort of union. While this social situation prevented the ancient
dramatist from introducing certain scenes which are the stock in trade
of the modern playwright, in one respect it was of service to him. Since
practically no attention was paid to the girl’s wishes in such matters
and almost none to the youth’s, the speed with which engagements could be
made and unmade or consummated in wedlock aided materially in observing
the unity of time. The plots and concentrated action of many plays in
the New Comedy (cf. for example Terence’s _Andrian Girl_) would be
quite impossible if women in such a case were not passive and helpless
instruments in the hands of others. Professor Lounsbury (_op. cit._, pp.
120 ff.) has convincingly shown what a stumbling-block the unity of time
proved to the classical dramatists of Western Europe who tried to conform
to the unities but lived in a society to which such rapidity in courtship
was repugnant.

In Greek tragedy the representation of women is strikingly different
from that in comedy. Whereas in this respect the latter reacted to the
usage of contemporaneous society, tragedy reverted to the practice of
Homer. In the _Iliad_ women like Helen and Andromache, suitably attended,
not only traverse the Trojan streets but appear on the walls and among
the men without losing caste or being regarded as immodest; and though
Helen’s elopement with his brother was the source of all Troy’s present
woes, Hector addresses her with far more consideration than he shows the
wayward Paris. In the fourth book of the _Odyssey_ she assists Menelaus
at their Spartan home in entertaining the strangers from Ithaca and
Pylus, and freely participates in the conversation without embarrassment
and as an equal. How faithful a picture these poems present of the social
situation in Homer’s own day is largely beside the question, since it is
evident that they portray the events of a bygone age, viz., the close
of that “Aegean” or “Minoan” civilization which has been unearthed by
Schliemann on the Greek mainland and more recently by Evans and others in
Crete.

    It is certain that women must have lived on a footing of
    greater equality with the men than in any other ancient
    civilization, and we see in the frescoes of Knossos conclusive
    indications of an open and easy association of men and women,
    corresponding to our idea of “Society,” at the Minoan Court
    unparalleled till our own day.[352]

The extant remains clearly demonstrate that Homer’s delineation was at
the least derived from a genuine tradition. In view of the fact that with
three or four exceptions (see pp. 123 f., above) the themes of tragedy
were always selected from Homeric or other mythological sources, it was
natural that the Greek tragedians should take over from him a social
system which so conveniently liberated them from the restrictions of
contemporaneous customs. It is unnecessary to cite passages to prove
that they actually did this; the women of almost every tragedy move
about with a freedom and conduct themselves with an independence such as
no respectable woman among the playwright’s contemporaries could have
asserted.

Nor is it peculiar that so artificial a pose is not consistently
maintained. Occasionally, an unconscious sense of outraged propriety
causes the dramatist to put words into a woman’s mouth which stand in
glaring contrast with the rest of the scene. In Euripides’ _Andromache_,
Hermione’s confidential slave brings their dialogue to a close by saying
to her mistress:

    Nay, pass within; make not thyself a show
    Before this house, lest thou shouldst get thee shame,
    Before this palace seen of men, my child.

                                        [Vss. 877 ff.; Way’s translation]

In real life these words would furnish an excellent motive for
withdrawing; how artificial they are in tragedy appears from the fact
that, though a strange-looking man is now seen approaching, Hermione
remains upon the scene! In the same author’s _Electra_ (vss. 341 ff.)
that heroine’s peasant-husband finds her conversing with her brother and
Pylades (though she recognizes neither) and exclaims:

    How now? What strangers these about my doors?
                            ... Beseemeth not
    That with young men a wife should stand in talk.

                                                      [Way’s translation]

The man’s lowly birth and usually deferential attitude toward his wife
make these words seem especially incongruous, and Electra promptly
apologizes for them. Sometimes these anachronisms are intentional and
fulfill a deliberate purpose. In Euripides’ _Phoenician Maids_ (vss. 88
ff.), Antigone and a servant are about to appear on the flat roof of
the palace in order to catch a glimpse of the invading army; but for
technical reasons (see pp. 171 f., above) it is necessary that Antigone’s
entrance be slightly delayed. Accordingly, the slave comes into view
first and is made to afford an excuse for her tardy appearance which
would have been legitimate for a fifth-century princess but which to a
Homeric woman or one at the period of the dramatic time of the play would
have seemed to spring from false modesty.

    Fair flower of thy sire’s house, Antigone,
    Albeit thy mother suffered thee to leave
    Thy maiden-bower at thine entreaty, and mount
    The palace-roof to view the Argive host,
    Yet stay, that I may scan the highway first,
    Lest on the path some citizen appear,
    And scandal light—for me, the thrall, ’twere naught,—
    On thee, the princess.

                                                     [Way’s translation.]

Again, when they are ready to withdraw, the approach of the chorus
reinforces the same motive (see p. 93, n. 1, above):

    Daughter, pass in....
    Lo, to the royal halls a woman-throng
    Comes, ...
    And scandal-loving still is womankind, etc.

                                        [Vss. 193 ff.; Way’s translation]

As intimated at the beginning it would be possible to extend this
chapter indefinitely. One more point must suffice. The belief was
widespread among the Greeks that if a man’s body failed of burial his
shade was forced to wander for a season on this side of the river Styx
and was thus cut off from association with the great majority of departed
spirits; the obligation of attending to the funeral rites rested upon
the nearest kin of the deceased. It was inevitable that a doctrine so
intimately connected with the life of the people should frequently appear
in their literature. Thus the _Iliad_ does not close with the deaths of
Patroclus and Hector, but two whole books are devoted to an account of
their funerals. Likewise in the _Odyssey_, however unsympathetic has
been his delineation of the suitors’ conduct, nevertheless Homer does
not pass by the final disposition of their bodies in silence (cf. xxiv.
417). In tragedy, which often involves the death of the hero, naturally
this matter is frequently mentioned. In Sophocles’ _Antigone_ it provides
the mainspring of the action. Because Polynices fell in arms against
his native country, Creon forbade his burial, but before the call of a
duty so sacred Antigone deemed not her life precious and performed the
formal rites for her brother’s body in defiance of the king’s command.
According to modern feeling, when the hero falls upon his sword at vs.
865 of Sophocles’ _Ajax_, the dénouement must have arrived and the
ending be close at hand; as a matter of fact, the play continues for
over five hundred verses. To the Greeks no less important than the fact
of his death was the treatment which was to be accorded his corpse, and
the honors which Ajax received in Attica as a “hero” in the technical,
religious sense of that term made this a matter of far more moment than
would have been true even in the case of an ordinary man. Aeschylus’
_Seven against Thebes_ concludes with a dirge between Antigone and Ismene
over the bodies of their two brothers, and an altercation between a
public herald and Antigone in which she declares her intention of defying
the state edict by burying Polynices. The genuineness of these scenes
has been assailed on technical grounds but in my opinion unwarrantably
(see p. 175, above). They have been charged also with carrying the play
(and the trilogy) past the natural stopping-point and to an inconclusive
close. But despite any considerations which can be urged in its support,
this objection ignores the Greek feeling concerning the paramount
importance of interment and cannot be allowed. Even modern audiences have
sometimes felt a certain sympathy with this point of view. “The typical
Elizabethan tragedy does not deal with the mistakes of a night, but with
the long—often life-long—struggles of its hero. Such a play must have an
appropriate ending. After the audience has sympathized with a Hamlet or
a Brutus through many a scene, it is not satisfied with a sudden death
and a drop of a curtain with a thud. It asks to see the body solemnly
and reverently borne off the stage as if to its last resting place. And
this was the respect which the honored dead received on the Elizabethan
stage.”[353]




    I find them one and all to be merely examples of a new
    artificiality—the artificiality of naturalism.—GORDON CRAIG.

CHAPTER VIII

THE INFLUENCE OF THEATRICAL MACHINERY AND DRAMATIC CONVENTIONS[354]


We have already noted that the Greek theater had no facilities for the
direct representation of interior scenes (see pp. 237-42, above). Of the
many subterfuges there mentioned as available for or utilized by the
ancient playwrights it is now in place to elaborate upon one. I refer to
the _eccyclema_, one of the strangest and most conventional pieces of
machinery that any theater has ever seen.

If it were desired to disclose to the audience the corpse of someone who
has just been done to death behind the scenes, perhaps with the murderers
still gloating over their crime, or to set any similar interior view
before the faithful eyes of the spectators, the simplest device was to
fling open the appropriate door of the scene-building and thus to display
the desired objects or persons close behind the opening. Whatever may be
said for such a method under other conditions, in the Greek theater it
ran afoul of certain practical considerations. For example, the wings of
the auditorium extended around so far (Fig. 22) that spectators seated
there could have obtained no satisfactory view through the opened doors
of the scene-building. Nevertheless, during the last quarter-century
not a few scholars have maintained that this was the sole means which
the Greek playwrights employed for such a purpose. But the ancient
commentators often speak of a contrivance which was used to bring a
supposedly interior scene out of the opened doors and more fully into the
view of the audience. This device is sometimes described as “turning”
or “revolving” (στρέφειν)[355] and sometimes as being “rolled out” (ἐκ,
“out” + κυκλεῖν, to “wheel”). And though eccyclema (ἐκκύκλημα) was used
as the generic term I am persuaded that there were in fact two types of
machine corresponding to different conditions in the Athenian theater.

When the first scene-building was erected, about 465 B.C., it must have
been simple and unpretentious, having neither parascenia nor proscenium.
Probably it consisted also of but a single story, though in Fig. 74[356]
I have given it a low clerestory with small windows for the admission
of light into the scene-building. The roof would thus have been better
suited for the occasional appearance of actors upon the housetop, as in
Aeschylus’ _Agamemnon_ (458 B.C.). In addition to the usual doors in the
front of the scene-building (_A_, _C_, and _E_ in Fig. 74), I believe
that a butterfly valve, to the base of which a semicircular platform
was attached, was used to close one or more other openings. In Fig. 74
one of these is shown closed and not in use at _B_ and another open
and in action at _D_. The size of the semicircular platform would be
limited only by the depth of the scene-building and the space between
the front doors, and there would be ample room for several persons upon
the eccyclema at a time. Therefore when a deed of violence had been
committed indoors it was possible, by revolving one of the valves after a
tableau had been posed upon its platform, to place a quasi-interior scene
before the spectators. This is Mr. Exon’s theory of the eccyclema, and it
admirably fits the conditions in the Athenian theater at an early date.

[Illustration: FIG. 74.—The Athenian Theater of About 460 B.C., Showing
the Earlier Type of Eccyclema.

See p. 285, n. 2]

Thus, Aeschylus’ _Eumenides_, which belongs to this period (458 B.C.),
opens with a monologue of the Pythian priestess (see p. 305, below).
At vs. 33 she enters the temple, but immediately returns, so shaken
by the sight within that she cannot walk, but crawls. She has seen a
blood-stained man (Orestes) at the omphalus and before him a sleeping
band of hideous Furies (vss. 34-63). At vs. 64 we must suppose that the
eccyclema revolves with Apollo, Hermes, and Orestes mounted upon it.
The first named bids the matricide to leave Delphi and speed to Athens
and Hermes to guard him on his journey. Whereupon the two step from
the platform and flee through one of the parodi, and the eccyclema,
with Apollo still upon it, is revolved back into its original position
(vs. 93). Here we may note a curious incongruity; the platform of the
eccyclema is actually out of doors; nominally it is indoors. If the
latter fact were kept steadfastly in mind, a character could not step
directly from the eccyclema into the orchestra (as Orestes does here) but
could only pass out through one of the doors after the eccyclema had been
closed again. It is of a piece with this that the characters are not only
spoken of as being indoors but sometimes as being out of doors. At vs. 94
the ghost of Clytemnestra appears in the orchestra (or perhaps is merely
heard from within the scene-building) calling upon the Furies to waken
and pursue their escaping prey. Beginning at vs. 117 their cries and
ejaculations are heard at intervals, and at vs. 143 they burst into the
orchestra for their entrance song (the parodus). At its conclusion (vs.
178) Apollo comes out and drives them from his precinct.

Sometimes the opening and shutting of the back scene is distinctly
referred to. Thus in Sophocles’ _Ajax_,[357] vs. 344, the coryphaeus
cries to the attendants: “Open there; perhaps even by looking upon me he
may acquire a more sober mood”; and as Tecmessa replies “Lo! I open,” the
door of the hero’s tent is opened and Ajax is seen amid the slaughtered
cattle, the victims of his misdirected vengeance. After playing a
prominent lyrical and speaking part in the scene which follows, Ajax
orders the door to be closed with all speed and disappears from view (vs.
593).

But the eccyclema was also described as a low, trundle platform,[358]
large enough to accommodate several persons and narrow enough to be
pushed through the doors of the scene-building, and this type would
be more suitable for the conditions which obtained in the Athenian
theater from about 430 B.C. (see pp. 235 and 292). At this period the
scene-building was raised to a second story and embellished with wooden
proscenium and parascenia, a crane came into use, etc. Under these
conditions the earlier type of eccyclema could no longer be so large nor
so easily seen, being hampered in both particulars by the proscenium. On
the other hand the new type could be made as long as the scene-building
was deep and could be pushed forward as far as might be necessary.[359]
Thus in Aristophanes’ _Acharnians_ (425 B.C.), Dicaeopolis appears
before the house of Euripides, who is lounging within doors. In response
to the former’s knock and summons “to be wheeled out” Euripides says
“I will be wheeled out,” and is pushed upon the stage (ἐκκυκλήθητι ...
ἐκκυκλήσομαι, vs. 408). The conversation which ensues between Dicaeopolis
outdoors and Euripides supposedly indoors does not conclude until vs.
479, when the latter exclaims: “The fellow is insolent; shut the doors.”
Perhaps in this instance, for parodic effect, a trundle couch itself is
shoved through the door instead of a stationary couch upon a trundle
platform.[360] Very similar is the scene in Aristophanes’ _Women at the
Thesmophoria_ (about 411 B.C.), where Agathon is wheeled out before
Euripides and Mnesilochus. Here again the verbs ἐκκυκλούμενος in vs. 96
and εἰσκυκλησάτω at the conclusion of the scene in vs. 265 do not permit
me to doubt that the eccyclema, or a comic substitute, was employed. It
is probably no accident that Euripides figures in both of these scenes.
He is “hoist with his own petar” as having invented, or been a frequent
user of, this mechanism.

The passage of tragedy in which most authorities concede the
employment of the eccyclema is Euripides’ _The Madness of Heracles_
(vss. 1029-1402). Chronologically this play falls somewhere between the
_Acharnians_ and the _Women at the Thesmophoria_. In his madness Heracles
has slain his wife and three children within the palace and at last has
fallen into a dazed torpor; whereupon his friends have bound him to a
broken column. As the chorus chant “Alas! Behold the doors of the stately
palace fall asunder” (vss. 1029 f.), the hero bound to a pillar amid
the slain is pushed forward on the eccyclema. At vs. 1089 he recovers
consciousness and begins to speak; at vs. 1123 Amphitryon loosens him;
and at vs. 1163 Theseus enters and finally (vs. 1402) persuades him to
descend into the orchestra.

Still another theatrical contrivance was called the μηχανή (“machine”),
which about 430 B.C. came to be used to bring divinities before the
ancient audiences. This was a crane and pulley arrangement, mounted in
one of the side wings (parascenia), whereby persons or objects could be
brought from behind the second story (the episcenium) and held suspended
in the air or let down upon the roof of the scene-building or into the
orchestra, or could be lifted in an opposite direction. This development
is of interest also from the structural standpoint as indicating that
whatever the situation may have been earlier, at least from this time on
the scene-building was provided with an episcenium (see pp. 67 f., above).

Before considering the use of the _machina_ further, it will be worth
while to trace briefly how gods played their parts in the Greek theater.
Prior to the erection of a scene-building, about 465 B.C., the scene
was perforce laid in the open countryside (see p. 226, above) and
the playwrights had no option but to place divinities and mortals in
immediate juxtaposition, after the Homeric fashion, in the orchestra.
For the same reason, however these characters might be thought of as
traveling before they entered the theater, they rested under the prosaic
necessity, as soon as they were seen by the spectators, of moving upon
the solid earth. Thus in Aeschylus’ _Prometheus Bound_, Oceanus enters at
vs. 284 with the words:

    From my distant caves cerulean
    This fleet-pinioned bird hath borne me;
    Needed neither bit nor bridle,
    Thought instinctive reined the creature.

                                                  [Blackie’s translation]

As a preliminary to his departure at vs. 397, he says:

    I go, and quickly. My four-footed bird
    Brushes the broad path of the limpid air
    With forward wing: right gladly will he bend
    The wearied knee on his familiar stall.

                                                  [Blackie’s translation]

It will be noted that there is nothing here which requires or implies
flight through the air within sight of the audience. Evidently Oceanus
rides upon a fantastic creature which is rolled along by hidden power or
which walks on disguised human legs. A similar interpretation must be set
upon the lines which refer to the chorus’ mode of entrance in the same
play. At vs. 124 Prometheus cries out:

    Hark again! I hear the whirring
    As of wingèd birds approaching;
    With the light strokes of their pinions
    Ether pipes ill-boding whispers:—
    Alas! Alas! that I should fear
    Each breath that nears me.

To which the Oceanides, as they come into view, reply:

    Fear nothing; for a friendly band approaches;
    Fleet rivalry of wings
    Oared us to this far height.

                                                  [Blackie’s translation]

They remain upon their winged car until the Titan invites them, at vs.
272, to step upon the earth. They accept in the following language:

    Not to sluggish ears, Prometheus,
    Hast thou spoken thy desire;
    From our breeze-borne seat descending,
    With light foot we greet the ground.
    Leaving ether chaste, smooth pathway
    Of the gently winnowing wing,
    On this craggy rock I stand.

                                                  [Blackie’s translation]

Here again there is no need of supposing that the choral car does not
rest solidly upon the ground. Its aërial motion is entirely off-scene.

Even at a later period, when more sophisticated devices were available,
the gods still continued on occasion to use strictly terrestrial means
of locomotion and to stand in the orchestra on a level with purely human
characters. For example, in Sophocles’ _Ajax_, Athena appears before the
tent of that hero and converses first with Odysseus and then with Ajax.
In Euripides’ posthumous _Bacchanals_, Dionysus is seen _in propria
persona_ before the house of Pentheus and afterward (in disguise) enters
and departs from its portals. Still again, in the pseudo-Euripidean
_Rhesus_, which is usually regarded as a fourth-century production,
Athena comes before Hector’s tent to advise and encourage Odysseus and
then to deceive Paris (cf. especially vss. 627 f.). On the contrary,
the words of the chorus in vss. 885 f. of this play show that the Muse
appears above their heads. Thus it is an error to think that the more
primitive methods of presenting divinities were entirely superseded by
later ones; the different methods existed side by side and might even be
used in the same play.

After the erection of a scene-building, about 465 B.C., it became
possible to employ the roof as a higher stage for certain scenes. At
the beginning of Aeschylus’ _Agamemnon_ the guard is found posted upon
the palace roof, on watch for the last in the series of beacon lights
from Troy. In Euripides’ _Phoenician Maids_, Antigone and an old servant
appear on top of the royal palace in order to view the hostile army (cf.
vss. 88 ff.). In these and other instances the roof of the scene-building
(or at a later period the top of the proscenium) was pressed into
service. Moreover, although this spot was of course not the exclusive
place of speaking, yet, since it was never used for dancing but only for
speaking, it came to be called the logium (λογεῖον) or “speaking-place”
_par excellence_ (see p. 59, above). This arrangement was especially
useful when a scene was to be thought of as taking place in heaven.
So in Aeschylus’ lost play entitled _The Weighing of Souls_, Zeus was
represented as placing the fates of Achilles and Memnon into the scales,
while Thetis and Eos prayed for their sons. The same meaning is assigned
the logium also in Aristophanes’ _Peace_, in which Trygaeus on the back
of his beetle mounts from earth to heaven, i.e., from the orchestra to
the top of the proscenium. The dramatists were not slow to perceive that
no other part of the theater was so well adapted for the awe-compelling
theophanies with which the Greeks were so fond of terminating their
tragedies. There is no doubt that this method of introducing divinities
was employed in several of our extant plays, but the absence of stage
directions makes it difficult to differentiate the instances sharply.

Finally about 430 B.C. the machine (μηχανή) came into use. Possibly this
is employed in Euripides’ _Medea_ (431 B.C.) in order to carry away that
heroine and the bodies of her children in the chariot of the sun-god, but
the situation is doubtful. It is almost certainly a mistake, however,
to attribute the machine, as some do, to the time of Aeschylus. Whether
Euripides was its inventor or not, he was extraordinarily fond of using
it. Indeed it has been remarked that “in almost every play of Euripides
something flies through the air.” At any rate the earliest sure instance
of the machine occurs in Euripides’ lost _Bellerophon_, which was brought
out some time before 425 B.C. By its means the hero in this play was
enabled to mount from earth to heaven, i.e., from the orchestra to the
top of the proscenium, upon the winged steed, Pegasus. This scene is
parodied in Aristophanes’ _Peace_ (421 B.C.), in which Trygaeus makes a
similar flight on the back of a beetle. Somewhat later the same device
enabled Perseus in Euripides’ lost _Andromeda_ to fly to the rocks
upon which that heroine had been bound. In Aristophanes’ _Clouds_ (423
B.C.) it was employed to suspend Socrates in a basket, whence he could
look down upon the troubles of mortals and survey the heavenly bodies.
Especially important is the situation in Euripides’ _Orestes_ (408 B.C.).
Orestes and Pylades have fled to the palace roof, dragging Hermione with
them. Menelaus is outside the bolted door below. Suddenly Apollo appears
(vs. 1625) with Helen at his side. The divinity begins to speak as
follows:

    Menelaus, peace to thine infuriate mood:
    I, Phoebus, Leto’s son, here call on thee.
    Peace thou, Orestes, too, whose sword doth guard
    Yon maid, that thou mayst hear the words I bear.
    Helen, whose death thou hast essayed, to sting
    The heart of Menelaus, yet hast missed,
    Is here,—whom _wrapped in folds of air ye see_ (ἐv αἰθέρος πτυχαῖς),—
    From death delivered, and not slain of thee, etc.

                                                      [Way’s translation]

The italicized words show that Apollo and Helen stand above all the other
actors in the drama, who are themselves standing on two different levels;
and it is evident that the machine was utilized for this purpose.

The last example is typical of a large class of instances in which a
divinity appears as a splendid climax to the events of the play. It is
plain that in all or practically all of these the god is raised above
the other performers, as would be only appropriate for an effective
close; but whether the deity merely came forward upon the logium or was
brought into view by means of a machine is not always an easy matter to
determine. By a natural extension of meaning, however, such an apparition
at the close of a play came to be called a “god from the machine” (θεὸς
ἀπὸ μηχανῆς; _deus ex machina_) regardless of the method used for
his appearance. By a further extension of meaning μηχανή was used to
designate any mechanical artifice, such as the “long arm of coincidence,”
for example. Thus Aristotle criticized the μηχανή in Euripides’ _Medea_,
but from another passage it becomes clear that he was referring, not
to the use of an actual machine at the dénouement, but only to the
improbability involved in the appearance of King Aegeus in the course of
the play.[361]

There are several ancient notices which refer to the use that inexpert
playwrights made of the deus ex machina in order to extricate their
characters when the plot had become complicated beyond the possibility of
disentanglement by purely natural means. It would seem that in the hands
of second-rate poets the deus was frequently so employed. In particular
it has often been charged that Euripides was guilty of this practice,
but in my opinion without due warrant. It is true that he concluded
fully half of his eighteen extant plays in this manner, besides several
other instances in the plays now lost; but with only one exception his
principal motive was never to relieve himself of the embarrassment into
which the confusion of his plot had involved him. The truth of this
statement appears most clearly in the _Iphigenia among the Taurians_
(see pp. 201 f., above). At vs. 1392 all the immediate requirements of
the drama have been met: Orestes, Iphigenia, and Pylades have made good
their escape, bearing the image of Artemis. The poet could have stopped
here without requiring the aid of a divinity. Instead he preferred to
plunge himself into such a plight as only a deity could rescue him from,
for in the succeeding verses a messenger reports that contrary wind and
wave are driving the refugees back to land. King Thoas just has time to
issue quick commands when Athena appears (vs. 1435) and bids him cease
his efforts. Surely the playwright’s difficulties here are self-imposed
and must be regarded as having furnished the excuse rather than the
reason for the use of the deus ex machina. What other objects might he
have had in mind? It has already been suggested (p. 202, above) that this
device enabled him to bring the melodramatic course of the action to a
more dignified and truly tragic close. Also he thus found it possible to
rescue the chorus, who had been promised a safe return to Greece but had
been left behind. But the fact that the chorus in the same poet’s _Helen_
is irremediably left in the lurch after the same fashion (see pp. 160
f., above) implies that this was a lesser consideration. Again, toward
the close of Euripides’ _Suppliants_, Adrastus has vowed the eternal
gratitude of Argos to Athens for having secured the return of her slain.
But the appearance of Athena at vs. 1183 makes her a witness to this, and
her demand that Adrastus’ promise be ratified by an oath converts it into
a sacred obligation.

But after all these are only occasional motives, while a more important
result is obtained again and again. In the _Iphigenia_, Euripides took
advantage of Athena’s presence to have her foretell the heroine’s later
career and final decease in Attica. It is unnecessary to point out that
the presence of a divinity was highly serviceable and appropriate for
such a purpose. We have already seen (p. 259, above) that exactly the
same situation obtains in the _Andromache_. In this way the poet was
enabled to burst through the restricting influences which caused the
normal observance of the unities of time and place and to include other
days and other places within the purview of his play. Frequently there is
included in this an aetiological explanation of rites which were observed
in the dramatist’s own day. Thus in Euripides’ _Hippolytus_ (vss. 1423
ff.), Artemis promises that the maidens of Troezen will perform certain
ceremonies in honor of the hero’s sufferings, and in the _Iphigenia among
the Taurians_ (vss. 1446 ff.), Athena enjoins upon Orestes to establish
the temple and worship of Artemis Tauropolos at Brauron in Attica.

It would take too long to examine here every instance of the deus ex
machina in Euripides. For that I must refer the reader to Professor
Decharme’s interesting discussion.[362] Suffice it to state that in every
case the element of prediction is brought into play. This appears even
in the _Orestes_, the only piece in which the theophany is frankly and
undisguisedly employed to provide Euripides with a dénouement. Orestes
and Electra stand condemned to death for having murdered their mother.
Being disappointed in the hope of receiving succor from their uncle,
Menelaus, they determine to punish him for his recreancy by slaying Helen
and to hold his daughter Hermione as a hostage in order to force him to
secure the recall of the decree against them. Helen has now supposedly
been slain, Menelaus stands angry and baffled before the bolted doors,
Orestes with his sword at Hermione’s throat taunts him from the palace
roof. If any regard is to be paid to verisimilitude or human psychology,
no reconciliation between these conflicting elements is possible; but
at this moment Apollo appears, and his fiat (see p. 293) resolves every
feud. The god goes beyond this, however, and in typical fashion predicts
(or ordains) the later career of each character.

It is but fair to Euripides to state that even Sophocles, that master
of dramatic writing, found the deus ex machina as indispensable in his
_Philoctetes_ as did the former in his _Orestes_. Philoctetes had come
into possession of the bow of Heracles, and having been abandoned on the
island of Lemnos by the leaders of the Greek expedition against Troy he
cherished an implacable hatred against his former associates. But now the
Greeks have received an oracle to the effect that the person and weapons
of Philoctetes are necessary for the capture of Ilium. In Sophocles’ play
the task of meeting these conditions has been laid upon the wily Odysseus
and the noble Neoptolemus. By a trick they succeed in gaining possession
of the bow and by another trick are in a fair way of enticing the
inexorable hero on board a ship bound for Troy, when the generous son of
Achilles refuses to proceed further with so infamous a scheme and finally
returns his weapons to Philoctetes. This development was inevitable if
the character of Neoptolemus is to be maintained consistently; but it
leaves the characters in a hopeless deadlock. At this juncture (vs.
1408) the deified Heracles appears to reveal the purposes of Zeus, and
Philoctetes abandons his resentment. Here again the element of prophecy
is associated with the deus ex machina, Heracles foretelling the healing
of Philoctetes’ wound and his future career of glory at Troy and
elsewhere.

Much nonsense has been indulged in by modern authorities in ridiculing
this contrivance of the Greek theater. This has sprung partly from a
misapprehension of the real situation and partly from a failure to
realize that devices fully as forced and artificial have been employed
by the supreme masters of dramatic art in modern times. Of course I do
not mean that an actual μηχανή has often been brought to view in modern
theaters or that divinities have frequently trod the stage. Nevertheless
a close equivalent of the deus ex machina, in the broader sense, has
not rarely been resorted to. For example, at the close of Shakespeare’s
_Cymbeline_ the king declares, _as the result of an oracle_:

    _Although the victor_, we submit to Caesar
    And to the Roman empire, promising
    To pay our wonted tribute.

Again, in _As You Like It_ everything has been satisfactorily settled
except one point: the spectators would hardly rest content to think of
the characters as spending the remainder of their lives in the Forest of
Arden. This detail is adjusted by means of a messenger, who reports that
the usurping duke had addressed a mighty power with which to capture his
brother and put him to the sword:

    And to the skirts of this wild wood he came;
    Where _meeting with an old religious man_,
    After some question with him, was converted
    Both from his enterprise and from the world;
    His crown bequeathing to his banish’d brother,
    And all their lands restored to them again
    That were with him exiled.

Finally, not to extend this list unduly, in Molière’s _Tartuffe_ by the
time that Orgon has at length unmasked the hypocrite he had played into
his hand to such an extent, by deeding him his property and by intrusting
him with incriminating papers, that it is impossible to conceive how he
can be extricated. But at this crisis an officer of police in the name of
the French king (almost a divine figure in those days) rescues him from
his troubles:

    Monsieur, dismiss all anxious fears. We live beneath a prince
    the foe of fraud,—a prince whose eyes can penetrate all hearts;
    whose mind the art of no impostor can deceive.... This one
    was powerless to mislead him; those wily schemes he instantly
    detected, discerning with his keen sagacity the inmost folds
    of that most treacherous heart. Coming to denounce you, the
    wretch betrayed himself; and by the stroke of some high justice
    the prince discovered him, by his own words, to be a great
    impostor, ... In a word, the monarch ... ordered me to follow
    him here and see to what lengths his impudence would go, and
    then to do justice on him for your sake. Yes, I am ordered to
    take from his person the papers which he boasts of holding, and
    place them in your hands. The king, of his sovereign power,
    annuls the deed you made him of your property; and he forgives
    you for the secret to which your friendship for an exile led
    you.

                                                [Wormeley’s translation.]

Who, with such examples of artificial and mechanical dénouements before
him, will cast the first stone at the deus ex machina of the Greeks?[363]

In a technical sense “prologue” came to denote the histrionic passage
before the entrance song of the chorus (the parodus) (see p. 192, above).
Such prologues are not found in Aeschylus’ _Suppliants_ and _Persians_,
which begin with the choral parodus. The earliest prologue of which we
have knowledge occurred in Phrynichus’ lost play, the _Phoenician Women_
(476 B.C.), in which a eunuch opens the action by spreading places in the
orchestra for the counselors of the Persian empire and at the same time
announcing the defeat of Xerxes in Greece. On the other hand, according
to a late authority, prologues were the invention of Thespis.[364] In
my opinion this contradiction is to be explained as a confusion between
the technical and non-technical uses of the term. There is every reason
for believing that prologues in the technical sense just mentioned did
not go back to the time of Thespis. But the fully developed prologue
was naturally employed as a vehicle for the exposition, and the task
of acquainting his audience with data preliminary to the action and
necessary for comprehending the plot of course confronted Thespis no
less than later playwrights. Now it is evident that he could accomplish
this in any one of three ways: (1) He could utilize the choral parodus
for this purpose, as Aeschylus partially did in his _Agamemnon_. Though
this play has a prologue, the parodus is employed to rehearse the story
of Iphigenia’s sacrifice and other pertinent events. Somewhat similar is
the parodus of Aeschylus’ _Persians_, which in the absence of a regular
prologue opens the play. Accordingly, the ancient argument to this play
remarks: “A chorus of elders ‘speaks the prologue’” (προλογίζει), using
the word in a popular sense. (2) The drama might begin with a dialogue
or duet between the chorus and an actor, somewhat in the manner of the
pseudo-Euripidean _Rhesus_. It is perhaps unlikely that this technique
was employed as early as Thespis. (3) The exposition might be intrusted
to the character who speaks first after the choral parodus. Since
the drama was then in the one-actor stage, such a “prologue” would
necessarily be monologic. Some justification for this nomenclature may be
found in the ancient argument to Sophocles’ _Oedipus at Colonus_, where
it is stated that Oedipus προλογίζει. Since Antigone and a stranger take
part in this prologue as well as Oedipus, the verb must here mean that
Oedipus “makes the first speech.” Now whatever may be true about Thespis
having employed (1) or (2), he certainly must have employed the third
type of exposition, and a “prologue” of this non-technical sort he can
truthfully be said to have invented.

It is a peculiarity of Euripides that he oftentimes combined startling
innovations with a reversion to archaic, or at least much earlier,
technique. Therefore, it is not surprising that he preferred prologues
which smack somewhat of this primitive type. Of course this statement is
not to be taken so literally as to imply that he placed his prologues
after the parodus. It means that instead of retailing the essential
antecedents of the action piecemeal in the manner of Sophocles and Ibsen,
he regularly set the whole body of data before the spectators at once in
an opening soliloquy. This is normally succeeded by a dialogue with which
the dramatic action really begins. In other words there is a prologue
within a prologue: the histrionic passage before the choral parodus (the
prologue in the technical sense) opens with a sharply differentiated
monologue (a prologue in the old, nontechnical sense). In my opinion the
latter must be regarded as consciously harking back to Thespian practice.
An excellent example of this technique is afforded by the _Alcestis_.
Here Apollo apostrophizes the palace of Admetus, thus revealing the
location of the scene (see p. 206). He then proceeds to relate in
detail how he had been forced to serve in the house of a mortal, how
considerately Admetus had treated him, how in gratitude he had tricked
the Fates into permitting Admetus to present a voluntary substitute
when premature death threatened him, how Queen Alcestis is the only one
found willing to die for the king, that this is the day appointed for
her vicarious act, etc. It is noticeable that scant regard is here paid
to dramatic illusion: Apollo tells what the spectators need to know and
because they need to know it. He explains his leaving the palace on the
ground of the pollution which the death of Alcestis would bring upon all
indoors at the time (vs. 22). But no excuse is provided for his long
soliloquy. We have seen that the apostrophe to the palace served another
purpose; and in any case, since (unlike the elements) houses were never
regarded by the Greeks as either divine or even animate, it would be no
adequate motivation for the monologue. The prologue concludes and the
action proper is set in motion by a quarrel between Apollo and Death, who
is now seen approaching.

This prologue is one of Euripides’ best. They are often interminable and
marred by long genealogies and other jejune matter. Some of them are not
undeserving of the strictures which critics, both ancient and modern,
have heaped upon them. Yet they served many useful purposes, too, and
there is no warrant for utterly condemning the type as a whole. We have
already seen (p. 258, above) that such a device enabled a dramatist to
circumvent the conditions which caused the conventional observance of the
unities of time and place and to bring earlier events more explicitly
within the scope of his play. The fact that Euripides more often chose
different themes for the plays in each group instead of writing trilogies
or tetralogies made brevity of exposition a desideratum. Again, a desire
for novelty and the fact that Aeschylus and Sophocles had anticipated
him in so many of his subjects caused him to depart widely from the
traditional accounts. Unless some warning of this were given, it would
sometimes be almost impossible for the ordinary spectator to comprehend
the action, and no other place was so appropriate for such an explanation
as the prologue. For example, in the _Helen_, Euripides abandoned the
account given by Homer and most others in favor of the version invented
by Stesichorus. The audience had to comprehend not only that Helen had
been the chaste and loyal wife of Menelaus throughout but also that there
were two Helens—one the true Helen who spent the years of the Trojan War
in Egypt, and the other a cloud-image Helen who eloped with Paris and was
recovered by Menelaus at the capture of the city. Surely a very clear
statement was required to render such a revamping of the legend clear to
everyone. Even the genealogical table was not without its utility in this
prologue, for the Egyptian king Theoclymenus and his sister would mean
nothing to most spectators until their lineage was traced to the familiar
names of Proteus and Nereus.

Quite apart from these considerations, however, there is still something
to be said for the Euripidean type of prologue. Knowing that the
spectators had no playbill, whatever the dramatist wished to tell them
concerning the antecedents of the dramatic action he had to tell them
in the play itself. And though the plots of most tragedies were based
upon oft-told myths, yet we have the authority of Aristotle[365] for
the statement that even the best-known tales were known to but a few.
Furthermore, the Greek practice of attacking the series of dramatic
incidents, not at the beginning or in the middle, but only at the end,
of excluding everything but the culmination or fifth act (see pp. 266
f., above), prevented the earlier events from actually being represented
upon the stage. There was, therefore, a considerable body of facts which
the poet had either to relate frankly and succinctly in a mass at the
beginning or to attempt to weave into the play and disclose gradually
as they were needed. Euripides preferred the former method, which he
employed in all of his extant plays except possibly the _Iphigenia at
Aulis_. It was borrowed by Sophocles in his _Maidens of Trachis_, was
extensively imitated by Aristophanes despite his caustic criticisms, and
was exceedingly popular among the writers of New Comedy. Even in modern
times, notwithstanding all that has been said against it both by ancients
and moderns, there have always been playwrights to whom this manner of
approach has made the stronger appeal. The principle involved is well
stated by a contemporaneous student of dramatic technique:[366] “It may
not unreasonably be contended, I think, that, when an exposition cannot
be thoroughly dramatized—that is, wrung out, in the stress of the action,
from the characters primarily concerned—it may best be dismissed, rapidly
and even conventionally, by any not too improbable device.”

Frequently the opening soliloquy of the prologue was spoken by a
divinity, and in Euripides’ _Hecabe_ it is spoken by a ghost! Their
prophetic powers enabled such personages to predict the course of the
action. Thus in Euripides’ _Hippolytus_ (vss. 42 ff.), Aphrodite declares
that Phaedra’s love for her stepson will be made known to his father,
whose curses will bring Hippolytus to destruction, and that Phaedra
herself will die, though with name untarnished; and these things actually
come to pass in the play. Indeed, an outstanding difference between
ancient and modern tragedy, doubtless arising from the fact that the
former dealt with traditional material whose outlines were fairly well
known to at least some and could be modified only within certain limits,
consists in this, that the Greek tragedians usually made little or no
attempt to keep their audiences in the dark as to the outcome. It is true
that there are occasional exceptions. For example, in Euripides’ _Ion_,
Hermes explains in the prologue that Apollo is Ion’s father by a secret
union, but expressly states that the Delphian deity will bring the youth
into his just deserts without letting his own misdeed become known.
Consequently when Ion’s very life seems to depend upon his parentage
transpiring, the hearts of the spectators are harried with fear for his
safety until Athena appears in her brother’s stead as deus ex machina and
unexpectedly reveals his secret after all. Euripides’ _Orestes_ provides
another instance of an attempt to baffle the spectators. The contrast
of a few such cases, however, serve only to call attention to the more
usual procedure. Here again the Greek practice has not lacked defenders.
Lessing wrote:[367] “I am far removed from believing with the majority
of those who have written on the dramatic art that the dénouement should
be hid from the spectator. I rather think it would not exceed my powers
to rouse the very strongest interest in the spectator even if I resolved
to make a work where the dénouement was revealed in the first scene.
Everything must be clear for the spectator, he is the confidant of each
person, he knows everything that occurs, everything that has occurred,
and there are hundreds of instances when we cannot do better than to
tell him straight out what is going to occur.” A somewhat different
point of view is presented by Professor Murray:[368] “But why does the
prologue let out the secret of what is coming? Why does it spoil the
excitement beforehand? Because, we must answer, there is no secret, and
the poet does not aim at that sort of excitement. A certain amount of
plot-interest there certainly is: we are never told exactly what will
happen but only what sort of thing; or we are told what will happen but
not how it will happen. But the enjoyment which the poet aims at is not
the enjoyment of reading a detective story for the first time; it is that
of reading _Hamlet_ or _Paradise Lost_ for the second or fifth or tenth.”

But the prologue was not always spoken by a divinity; oftentimes a
mortal appeared in this capacity. Sometimes this mortal took no further
part in the dramatic action, and sometimes he did. In the latter case he
occasionally displayed as prologist a greater knowledge of the situation
and of what was going to happen than he afterward seemed to possess as an
acting character. This difficulty occurs in Plautus’ _Braggart Captain_.
At vss. 145 ff. (in the prologue) Palaestrio boasts how he will cause
his fellow-slave “not to see what he has seen” and even explains the
trick which will be used for this purpose. But in the scene following the
prologue, when he must make good his braggadocio, he seems as perplexed
and confounded as would one who had not foreseen this emergency.

In later times the soliloquy of the prologist was sometimes deferred
until after an introductory scene or two. Such “internal” prologues
occur in the _Casket_ and the _Braggart Captain_ of Plautus. The meager
beginnings of this system can be traced in Aristophanes and Euripides,
but there is no evidence for its full development prior to the time of
Alexis, a poet of Middle Comedy. His nephew, Menander, who belonged to
the New Comedy, employed it in his _Hero_ and _Girl with Shorn Locks_. In
Plautus’ _Amphitruo_, Mercury speaks an opening prologue (vss. 1-152),
then engages in a dialogue with Sosia (vss. 153-462), after which he
continues the prologue for some thirty additional verses!

The six comedies of Terence all begin with “dissociated” prologues.
These give the name and Greek authorship of the Latin play and bespeak
the friendly consideration of the audience. They devote no attention,
however, to the dramatic situation in the comedy or to future
complications therein, but are employed for polemical purposes against
the poet’s detractors. It used to be supposed that this was an absolutely
new departure on Terence’s part, but it is now found to be only the last
in a series of developments which began in Greek comedy.[369]

Of course monologues were not the invention of the playwrights, being
found as early as Homer. Yet true soliloquies, as seen in Shakespeare,
are a late development in Greek drama. The epic hero, when alone, may
appeal to some divinity or the elements, or he may address his own soul;
he never simply thinks his thoughts out loud. So long as the tragedies
began with a parodus the choreutae would nearly always be present; and
a character who was otherwise alone could address his remarks to them.
Consequently no monologues occur in either the _Suppliants_ or the
_Persians_ of Aeschylus. But with the introduction of a prologue the
way was opened up. It would be interesting to know how the words of the
eunuch at the beginning of Phrynichus’ _Phoenician Women_ were motivated,
but no evidence is available. In the extant plays of Aeschylus only
three soliloquies are found—in the _Prometheus Bound_ (vss. 88 ff.),
_Agamemnon_ (vss. 1 ff.), and _Eumenides_ (vss. 1 ff.). The first is
addressed to the elements (ether, breezes, rivers, ocean, earth, and sun)
and the other two begin with prayer. There are also some other speeches
which are delivered in the presence of the chorus or of another character
but with little or no reference thereto. If completely detached, however,
they are addressed to divinities as before. It must be added that though
monologues in Aeschylus and other tragedians may be thus motivated at
the beginning, they frequently trail off into expressions which are not
strictly appropriate. It is noticeable, then, that of the two types
of motivation found in Homer only the first occurs in Aeschylus. In
Sophocles the situation is practically the same.

But already in the oldest of Euripides’ extant tragedies, the _Alcestis_,
a development may be detected. Apollo’s monologue at the beginning of
this play has just been discussed. It is apparent that when a divinity
utters a soliloquy he would rarely address his words to some absent deity
or to the elements, as mortal personages did in Aeschylus and Sophocles.
This factor helps to account for the fact that dramatic illusion suffers
here. For all practical purposes Apollo might just as well have frankly
addressed himself to the spectators, as the comic poets sometimes allowed
their characters to do. Such prologizing deities are careful to explain
the reason for their presence in the place where we find them; but they
are absolved from the necessity of accounting for their soliloquizing.
Their speeches sometimes degenerate into business-like notices which
are almost brusque in their abruptness. For example, Posidon begins
Euripides’ _Trojan Women_:

    I come, Posidon I, from briny depths
    Of the Aegean Sea, where Nereids dance, etc.

                                                      [Way’s translation]

This new freedom, which thus came first to divine prologists, was soon
extended also to mortals. Thus the heroine in Euripides’ _Andromache_
exclaims (vss. 1 ff.):

    O town of Thebes, beauty of Asian land,
    Whence, decked with gold of costly bride-array,
    To Priam’s royal hearth long since I came, ...
    Here on the marshes ’twixt Pharsalia’s town
    And Phthia’s plains I dwell.

                                                      [Way’s translation]

The artificiality of Euripides’ opening soliloquies strikingly appears in
his _Orestes_. Referring to Clytemnestra’s murder of her husband, Electra
says (vss. 26 f.):

    Wherefore she slew,—a shame for maid to speak!—
    I leave untold, for whoso will to guess.

                                                      [Way’s translation]

These words, together with certain other phrases, show clearly that the
speaker is conscious of an audience.

It will be worth our while to note and comment also upon the other
monologues in the _Alcestis_ and the first one in the _Medea_, these
being the oldest of Euripides’ extant tragedies. At vss. 243 ff. the
dying Alcestis, in the presence of her husband and the chorus and
interrupted by the former at regular intervals, bids a final farewell
to sun, earth, palace, etc. This belongs to the type found in Homer
and Aeschylus and is paralleled by Sophocles’ _Antigone_ (vss. 806
ff.) and _Ajax_ (vss. 372 ff.). At vs. 746 of the _Alcestis_ occurs
one of the few instances of a chorus retiring during the course of a
Greek play. Advantage is at once taken of this circumstance. A reason
for the servant’s leaving the palace at this point can readily be
imagined but none is expressly mentioned. Nor is the bluntness of his
monologue softened by any motivation. At vs. 773 Heracles appears and a
dialogue ensues between them. At vs. 837 the servant withdraws; Heracles
tarries and bursts forth as follows (incidentally obviating in this
way the necessity of their departures in opposite directions exactly
synchronizing):

    O much-enduring heart and hand of mine, etc.

It will be observed that such an introduction for the following
soliloquy is a reversion to the second Homeric type, which now makes
its first appearance in tragedy. At vs. 861 Admetus re-enters with the
chorus and apostrophizes his bereaved palace. His speech at vs. 934
begins with the words “my friends,” referring to the chorus, and closes
in the same way at vs. 961. Except for these artificial sutures his words
constitute in effect a soliloquy. This play is especially valuable for
our present purpose as indicating what a hindrance the chorus was to the
unhampered use of monologues outside of the prologue, and how quickly
and freely they were called into requisition during its withdrawal.
The same deduction may be drawn also from comedy. In the Old Comedy of
Aristophanes, the chorus still being active and vigorous, soliloquies
were employed hardly more freely than in Aeschylus or Sophocles. But by
the time of New Comedy, when the chorus had so far lost its functions as
to appear only for _entr’actes_ and when Euripides’ innovations had had
time to work their full effect, monologues occur with great frequency
and are usually unmotived. In fact, Professor Leo endeavored to use them
in the plays of Plautus and Terence, which are taken from originals of
the Greek New Comedy, as a criterion to determine the position of act
divisions.

From the _Medea_ I wish to cite only the opening monologue, which is
spoken by the Colchian’s nurse:

    Would God that Argo’s hull had never flown
    Through those blue Clashing Rocks to Colchis-land,
          ... My mistress then,
    Medea, ne’er had sailed to Iolcos’ towers
    With love for Jason thrilled through all her soul.

                                                      [Way’s translation]

An admirable quality here is the passionate emotion which does not always
dominate Greek soliloquies. A little later (vs. 49) a man slave enters
and inquires:

    O ancient chattel of my mistress’ home,
    Why at the gates thus lonely standest thou,
    Thyself unto thyself discoursing ills?
    How wills Medea to be left of thee?

                                                      [Way’s translation]

She replies:

    ... For I have sunk to such a depth of grief,
    That yearning took me hitherward to come
    And tell to earth and heaven my lady’s plight.

                                                      [Way’s translation]

It is noteworthy, however, that despite this statement her opening
monologue had not in fact been addressed to earth or sky. Since Ibsen the
soliloquy has been tabooed on the modern stage. Yet inasmuch as people
do at times talk aloud, when alone, it would seem that the present-day
reaction had gone too far and that monologues, under proper psychological
conditions, might sometimes be allowed. Furthermore it must be supposed
that among impulsive southern races, like the Greeks and Romans,
soliloquizing would be more common than with us, and in consequence it
would naturally claim a larger part in their drama. Nevertheless, we
have seen that, until Euripides, the playwrights restricted its use to
such instances as could be motivated with some degree of naturalness.
Of these motives it must be allowed that the least satisfactory was
that founded on an appeal to the elements. Of course most commentators
have refused to recognize this as a mere expository convention and have
expatiated upon the innate feeling for and sympathy with nature among the
Greeks. But as for myself I fear that this explanation has been pressed
unduly. Euripides, I am sure, felt self-conscious in utilizing a device
so threadbare and patent. My conviction is based on the retroactive way
in which he employed the motive here in the _Medea_, on the fact that he
often preferred to introduce monologues without any motive than to resort
to one so bald and artificial as this, and especially on the guilty
phrase which he slips into the heroine’s soliloquy in his _Iphigenia
among the Taurians_ (vss. 42 f.):

    What visions strange the night hath brought to me
    I’ll tell to ether, _if doing so brings help_.

Though it is unsafe to set too much value upon the jibes of the comic
poets, yet it is not without interest to observe their attitude in this
matter. Philemon placed a close parody of this _Medea_ passage in the
mouth of a boastful cook:[370]

    For yearning took me hitherward to come
    And tell to earth and heaven—my cuisinerie!

And Plautus in his _Merchant_ (vss. 3 ff.) preserved a more explicit
passage from the same poet of New Comedy:

    I do not do as I’ve seen others do
    In comedies, who through the power of love
    Tell night, day, sun, or moon their miseries.

The foregoing statement of Euripidean usage is far from exhaustive. Yet
it is necessary to hasten on. Quite apart from the effects which may be
secured from monologues in choral drama, there are no less than three
additional uses to which they can easily be put in chorusless plays. In
terms of classical drama, therefore, they will appear most frequently in
Greek New Comedy and in Plautus and Terence.

In the first place when two characters meet on the stage and talk it is
necessary for them either to appear simultaneously at the two entrances
(and it is self-evident that this method cannot be employed very often
without seeming ridiculous) or for one of them to enter first and fill up
a slight interval before the other’s arrival by soliloquizing. Such an
entrance monologue occurs at the beginning of Aristophanes’ _Lysistrata_,
where the bearer of the title-rôle complains:

    Now were they summoned to some shrine of Bacchus,
    Pan, Colias, or Genetyllis, there had been
    No room to stir, so thick the crowd of timbrels.
    And now!—there’s not one woman to be seen.
    Stay, here comes one, my neighbor Calonice.
    Good morning, friend.

                                                    [Rogers’ translation]

Perhaps I may be pardoned for digressing here a moment in order to
discuss what happens when two characters make a simultaneous introit
through the same entrance. In most cases it is natural to suppose
that they have been together for some little while and that some talk
has already been carried on between them. On the contrary in the
fifth-century plays the conversation regularly does not begin until after
they have entered the stage. Two instances of this have already been
noted on pages 259 f., above, Orestes coming all the way from Phocis to
Argos before he acquaints his associates with the Delphian oracle or
formulates a plan of action with them, and Iris accompanying Madness from
Olympus but reserving her instructions until Thebes has been reached. Of
course it is easy to see why this convention was employed, but a little
thinking enabled the playwrights to secure the same results without
violating verisimilitude quite so patently. Only twice in fifth-century
drama do characters enter with words which indicate that they have
already been engaged in conversation. In Aristophanes’ _Frogs_ (405 B.C.)
(vs. 830), Euripides says to Dionysus, as they emerge with Pluto from the
latter’s palace: “I would not yield the throne of tragedy to Aeschylus;
do not urge me to.” Again in Euripides’ posthumous _Iphigenia at Aulis_
(vss. 303 ff.), Agamemnon’s slave enters in expostulation: “Menelaus,
outrageous is your boldness.... You ought not to have unsealed the tablet
which I bore.” The former of these quotations clearly implies words off
scene, and the latter implies action and presumably words as well. But in
New Comedy and the Latin comedies this technique has, not unnaturally,
pre-empted the field. Two instances must suffice. In Terence’s version
of Menander’s _Andrian Girl_ (vss. 820 f.), Chremes enters complaining:
“My friendship for you, Simo, has already been put sufficiently to the
test; I have run enough risk. Now make an end of coaxing me.” Again,
in Terence’s _Brothers_ (vs. 517), Ctesipho and Syrus enter together,
the former saying: “You say my father has gone to the country?” It is
characteristic of this technique that the very first words make plain the
fact that the stage conversation is a continuation of one already begun
off stage and likewise disclose the topic under discussion. It will be
remembered that simultaneous entrances of this sort, when made from the
abode of one of the characters involved, are generally left unmotivated
(see p. 239, above).

After this digression we may return to the second use which New Comedy
made of monologues, viz., as exit speeches. Since there was no drop
curtain in the Greek theater, all characters had to go off as well as
come on; no tableau effects to terminate a scene were possible. Moreover,
in order to avoid the simultaneous exit of all the persons in a scene,
it often seemed best to detain one of them beyond the rest and allow him
to fill a brief interval with a soliloquy. As already mentioned this
technique occurs so frequently in Plautus and Terence that an attempt
has been made to utilize it as a criterion for a division of the Roman
comedies into acts. Such an exit soliloquy has already been noted in
Euripides’ _Alcestis_, vss. 837 ff. (p. 306, above).

In the third place, unless a new character is to enter the stage at
the very instant that an old one leaves it, the actor who engages in
successive dialogue with each of them must cause a slight pause by
soliloquizing. Such a soliloquy is technically known as a “link.” One is
found in the monologue which Strepsiades utters between the withdrawal of
his son and the entrance of Socrates’ pupil (Aristophanes’ _Clouds_, vss.
126 ff.). Links are often extremely short, sometimes being no more than a
cough or hem; they are frequently employed to cover the condensation of
time, especially when they occur between the exit and re-entrance of the
same character. Furthermore, they occur in playwrights who reject other
forms of soliloquy, no less than five instances appearing in Ibsen’s
_Pillars of Society_ alone.

So long as the chorus retained its vigor, dramatists found it easier,
except in the prologue or during occasional withdrawals of the chorus
in the course of the action, to fill gaps by remarks addressed to the
coryphaeus than by entrance soliloquies, exit soliloquies, or links. Yet
they do occur in choral drama, and I have cited one instance illustrative
of each type from fifth-century plays. In comedies of subsequent date, in
which the chorus was greatly curtailed or nonexistent, they may be found
by the score.

It still remains to speak of another kind of soliloquy, viz., the aside
or, more accurately speaking, the apart, by which the grim ghastliness
of modern tragedy has often been enhanced. The vastness of Greek
theaters and the almost constant presence of from twelve to twenty-four
choreutae rendered this artifice an awkward one for ancient playwrights.
Nevertheless, asides are occasionally found in Greek drama. In Euripides’
_Hippolytus_ (vss. 1060 ff.), that hero, unable to clear himself of false
accusations except by violating his oath of secrecy, exclaims to himself:

    O Gods, why can I not unlock my lips,
    Who am destroyed by you whom I revere?
    No!—whom I need persuade, I should not so,
    And all for nought should break the oaths I swore.

                                                     [Way’s translation],

entirely unheard by his father and the chorus close at hand. Half-asides
occur in Euripides’ _Hecabe_ (vss. 736-51), where the Trojan queen utters
no less than four aparts, an aggregate of ten verses, in an effort to
decide whether to appeal to Agamemnon for aid. His interruptions indicate
that he is aware that she is speaking but does not catch the drift of her
words. It should be noted, however, that these passages do not contain
the ironic values which have usually inhered in the use of aparts upon
the modern stage. The obstacles hampering the employment of asides in
fifth-century times appear most plainly from scenes like Euripides’ _Ion_
(vss. 1520 ff.), where two actors wish to speak to one another privately.
Their confidences must be uttered loud enough to be heard by the
seventeen thousand spectators, but the nearby chorus catches not a word.
With the virtual disappearance of the chorus in New Comedy the apart, not
unnaturally, came into more frequent use and was employed more as it has
been in modern times.

For the absence of ironic aparts, however, Greek tragedy was richly
compensated by the frequent occurrence of dramatic irony. Irony of
course is a mode of speech by means of which is conveyed a meaning
contrary to the literal sense of the words, and may be divided into two
classes—“verbal” and “practical” (to use Bishop Thirlwall’s term) or
“dramatic.” In the former the dissimulation is manifest to all concerned,
else the sarcasm, passing unrecognized, would fail of its effect and
recoil upon the speaker, while in the latter (which alone interests us
here) concealment of the hinted truth is essential. It may be the speaker
himself who fails to perceive the inner meaning of his own words (and
then we call it “objective” irony), or he may employ “subjective” irony,
i.e., consciously use his superior knowledge, to gloat over his victim or
inveigle him to doom by an ambiguous utterance. In either case, however,
the _double entente_ is usually known to the audience, a considerable
part of whose pleasure consists in viewing with prophetic insight the
abortive efforts of the dramatic characters to escape the impending
catastrophe.

An excellent instance of conscious irony occurs in Middleton and Rowley’s
_Changeling_, Act III, scene 2. There De Flores is guiding Alonzo about
the castle where he intends to murder him, and significantly says:

    All this is nothing; you shall see anon
    A place you little dream on.

The unconscious irony, however, is likely to be more tragic in its tone.
So when Iago first conceives his groundless suspicions of his wife and
Othello he vows that he will be

    evened with him, wife for wife.

                                            [_Othello_, Act II, scene 2],

and these words are fulfilled in a sense far different than he intended,
by the death of both wives. For this sort of irony Sophocles was
especially renowned, and his _Oedipus the King_ abounds in instances.
One must suffice. Oedipus has slain his own father, the reigning king,
though these facts are unknown to him. Being now directed by an oracle
to investigate his predecessor’s death, he declares, with more meaning
than he realized: “I will fight this battle for him as for mine own sire”
(vss. 264).

It is possible to draw still one more distinction. Dramatic irony
consists, not only in the contrast between the outer, apparent meaning
and the real, inner meaning of an ambiguous phrase, but also in the
contrast between the real and the supposed situation. Thus a man whose
ruin is impending often mistakes the position of his affairs so utterly
as to indulge in entirely unjustified expressions, feelings, gestures, or
acts of rejoicing and triumph. The difference between these two varieties
of dramatic irony may be seen in Sophocles’ _Maidens of Trachis_. In
the first place we have the contradiction between the real meaning of
the oracle that Heracles’ “release from toils will be accomplished” and
Heracles’ own mistaken interpretation thereof (vss. 167 f. and 1170
ff.); and in the second place there is the “irony of situation” in that
Deianira sends him a gift which she hopes will woo back his love but
which actually results in his death. Euripides’ _Bacchanals_ offers other
examples in the boastful and confident attitude of Pentheus, whom the
spectators know to be doomed to a frightful end, and in the mock humility
of Dionysus, whose intended vengeance they foresee. Again, in Sophocles’
_Oedipus the King_ (vss. 1014 ff.) there is a striking contrast between
the intended and the actual effect when the Corinthian messenger informs
Oedipus that Polybus was not his father. This irony of situation often
consists in the clash or shock of conflicting intrigues, as may be seen
in Shakespeare’s _Measure for Measure_.

But dramatic irony was not confined to tragedy, as a brief analysis of
one of Terence’s plays will disclose. In comedy, however, the effect
was naturally somewhat different, being more humorous than tragic.
In the _Andrian Girl_, Simo intrigues to test his son’s obedience,
pretending that he has arranged an immediate marriage for him with
Chremes’ daughter. Accordingly there is irony of situation in the
consternation which this false announcement causes (vss. 236 ff. and 301
ff.). Pamphilus’ slave (Davus), however, soon sees through the trick and
persuades him to turn back the intrigue (and, consequently, the irony)
upon his father by apparent compliance (vss. 420 ff.). But Simo at once
proceeds to get Chremes’ consent in fact, so that the dramatic situation
is again reversed, as the too clever slave discovers to his surprise when
he facetiously inquires why the wedding is being delayed (vss. 581 ff.).
Especially galling are Simo’s words (said without a full comprehension
of how true they are): “Now I beseech you, Davus, since you alone have
brought about this marriage ... exert yourself further that my son be
brought into line” (vss. 595 f.). There is also irony in the conduct of
Charinus, who is a suitor for Chremes’ daughter and is naturally (though
needlessly) disturbed at the thought of Pamphilus’ marrying her (vss. 301
ff., 625 ff., and 957 ff.). Of course there is always irony involved when
a man leads himself astray or allows another so to lead him; but as these
are the standard themes of comedy, one need not cite every such instance.

The best instance in this play, however, can be appreciated only on
second reading or as the memory of the spectator recalls its real
significance. Simo wishes his son to marry Chremes’ daughter, but
Pamphilus’ affections are already pledged elsewhere. Now unknown to all
the parties concerned this sweetheart is also Chremes’ daughter. There
is, therefore, more meaning than he intends or perceives in Pamphilus’
despairing question: “Can I in no way avoid relationship with Chremes?”
(vs. 247).

This is similar to Admetus’ words in Euripides’ _Alcestis_ (vs. 1102)
when Heracles insists that he receive into his home a veiled woman
(really Admetus’ own wife restored to life): “Would you had never won
her in a wrestling bout!” But in the present instance the identity of
Pamphilus’ mistress does not transpire until later, so that, as I have
stated, the irony is not at first apparent. There is here a point of
difference between tragedy and comedy in antiquity: the themes of tragedy
were almost invariably drawn from mythology and the outlines of the story
would therefore be known to practically everyone of consequence in the
audience; furthermore, the not infrequent practice of foretelling the
dénouement in the prologue would put even the ignorant in a position to
recognize subtleties in the language of the characters. That the ancient
playwrights themselves appreciated this difference appears from the words
of the comic poet, Antiphanes, already quoted on page 127, above. As a
result, in ancient tragedy the irony of a situation or ambiguous phrase
would be recognized at once without any preparation for it whatsoever,
while in ancient comedy and in modern plays, whether tragic or comic,
these effects usually have to be led up to. Two other considerations
ought also to be mentioned, however. First, audiences exercise a sort of
clairvoyance in looking beneath the bare words and divining the course
of events, so that (paradoxical at it sounds) the surprises of the stage
usually are long foreseen by the spectators and only the expected events
happen. Secondly, the dénouement here in question, the discovery that
Pamphilus’ sweetheart is the daughter of free parents and, in particular,
of someone among the dramatis personae, was so hackneyed in New Comedy,
occurring in no less than five of Terence’s six plays, that any frequent
theatergoer would have been on the lookout for it and might easily have
recognized any subtle effects dependent thereon.

In conclusion, we have to consider the dramatic purpose of tragic irony
and its effect upon the audience. Bishop Thirlwall (_op. cit._, p. 489)
pointed out:

    There is always a slight cast of irony in the grave, calm,
    respectful attention impartially bestowed by an intelligent
    judge on two contending parties, who are pleading their causes
    before him with all the earnestness of deep conviction, and
    of excited feeling. What makes the contrast interesting is,
    that the right and the truth lie on neither side exclusively:
    that there is no fraudulent purpose, no gross imbecility of
    intellect, on either: but both have plausible claims and
    specious reasons to allege, though each is too much blinded
    by prejudice or passion to do justice to the views of his
    adversary. For here the irony lies not in the demeanor of the
    judge, but is deeply seated in the case itself, which seems to
    favor both of the litigants, but really eludes them both.

This analogy is especially true when the irony arises from clashing
intrigues, and the audience, admitted to the author’s confidence and
sitting at his side, as it were, joins with him in awarding praise
here and condemnation there. Again the playwright is the omnipotent
creator and ruler of the little world that moves upon the stage. And
the spectator, beholding the dramatic characters’ fruitless toil and
plotting, baseless exultation, and needless despondency seems to be
admitted behind the scenes of this world’s tragedy and to view the
spectacle through the great dramatist’s eyes, learning that man must be
content with little, humble ever, distrustful of fortune, and fearful of
the powers above. Thus the slighter themes and less important reverses of
comedy bring a purification (κάθαρσις) in their train no less truly than
the more somber catastrophes of tragedy.[371]




    Footprints on the sands of time.—H. W. LONGFELLOW.

CHAPTER IX

THEATRICAL RECORDS[372]


The technical word used of bringing out a play was διδάσκειν (“to
teach”), and the technical name for the director of the performance was
_didascalus_ (διδάσκαλος) or “teacher.” We have already noted (p. 198,
above) that _didascalia_ (διδασκαλία; “teaching”) was the name for a
group of plays brought out by a tragic playwright at one time, and the
same word was applied to a record of the theatrical contests. At the
beginning the didascalus and the author were identical, for the reason
that the primitive poets taught the choreutae what they were to sing,
that the poets in the one-actor period carried the histrionic parts
themselves and still taught the choreutae their rôles, and that even when
they had ceased to act in their plays they yet continued to train those
who did.

The Athenian archons seem to have kept records of the contests at the
Dionysiac festivals, the archon eponymus for the City Dionysia and the
king archon for the Lenaea. These records, of course, were not compiled
in the interests of literary research such as flourished in Alexandrian
times but merely for the private convenience of the officials and
for documentary purposes. Apparently they consisted of a bald series
of entries, chronicling the choregi, tribes, poet-didascali, actors,
plays, and victors in the various dithyrambic and dramatic events. In
the fourth century B.C. these archives were published by Aristotle in
a work entitled _Didascaliae_. His service probably was mainly that of
unearthing the material and arranging it in chronological sequence and of
making it available to a wider public, for Dr. Jachmann has made it seem
clear that he did not edit the archons’ record to any great extent. In
consequence Aristotle’s book contained too much and was overloaded with
unimportant details. Its main value consisted in being a court of last
resort and a source from which smaller and less unwieldy lists might be
compiled.

Some of these indirect products of Aristotle’s industry were entered
upon stone and are still preserved in fragments. The first of these is
for convenience referred to as the Fasti (“calendar” or “register”) and
contained the annual victors in each event at the City Dionysia from
about 502/1 B.C. when volunteer comuses were first given a place in the
festival program. This inscription was cut upon the face of a wall built
of four rows of superimposed blocks and almost six feet in height. The
text was arranged in vertical columns. There were originally sixteen of
these and most of them contained one hundred and forty-one lines. The
presence of a heading over the first five columns, however, reduced the
lines upon them to one hundred and forty. For the most part the lines
in adjoining columns were placed exactly opposite one another, but
toward the bottom of col. 13 the writing was crowded so that this column
perhaps contained no less than one hundred and fifty-three lines. As the
entries for 346-342 B.C. fell in this space, most authorities accept Dr.
Wilhelm’s conclusion that the body of the inscription was cut at that
period and received additional entries, year by year, for subsequent
festivals until about 319 B.C.[373] Whoever was responsible for the
original inscription must have excerpted the appropriate items from
Aristotle’s _Didascaliae_ and, for the brief period intervening between
the publication of Aristotle’s book and 346-342 B.C., from the original
archives.

[Illustration: FIG. 75.—Wilhelm’s Transcription and Restoration of Two
Fragments of the Athenian Fasti.

See p. 320, n. 1]

                  —  πρῶτ]ον κῶμοι ἦσαν τῶ[ι Διονύσωι —
     [Ξ]ενοκλείδης ἐχορήγε   Πανδιονὶ[ς ἀνδρῶν]      [ὁ δεῖνα ἐχορήγει]
     [Μ]άγνης ἐδίδασκεν      Κλεαίνετ[ος Κυδαθη:     [ὁ δεῖνα ἐδίδασκε]
                               ἐχορήγει]
     τραγωιδῶν               κωμωιδῶ[ν]              [ὑποκριτὴς ὁ δεῖνα]
     Περικλῆς Χολαρ: ἐχορή   Θαρ[— — ἐχορήγει]     [Ἐπὶ Τιμαρχίδου 447/6]
   5 Αἰσχύλος ἐ[δ]ίδασκε     [ὁ δεῖνα ἐδίδασκε]      [—ὶς παίδων]
     [Ἐπὶ Χάρητος 472/1]     [τραγωιδῶν]             [ὁ δεῖνα ἐχορήγει]
     [— παίδων]              [...]: ἐχορή            Ἐ[ρεχθηὶς ἀνδρῶν]
     [ὁ δεῖνα ἐχορήγει]      [...] ἐδίδασκεν         Βίω[ν ἐχορήγει]
     [— ἀνδρῶν]            [Ἐπὶ Φίλο]κλέους 459/8    κω[μωιδῶν]
  10 [ὁ δεὶνα ἐχ]ο[ρήγει]    [Οἰ]νηὶς παίδων         Ἀνδ[— ἐχορήγει]
     [κωμωιδῶν]              Δημόδοκος ἐχορήγε       Καλ[λίας ἐδίδασκεν]
     [ὁ δεῖνα ἐχ]ορήγει      Ἱπποθωντὶς ἀνδρῶν       τρα[γωιδῶν]
     [... ἐδίδ]ασκεν         Εὐκτήμων Ἐλευ: ἐχορή    Θαλ[— ἐχορήγει]
     [τραγωιδῶν]             κωμωιδῶν                Κα[ρκίνος ἐδίδασκε]
  15 [ὁ δεῖνα ἐχ]ορήγει      Εὐρυκλείδης ἐχορήγει    ὑπ[οκριτὴς ὁ δεῖνα]
     Πολυφράσμω]ν ἐδίδασ     Εὐφρόνιος ἐδίδασκε      Ἐπ[ὶ Καλλιμάχου 446/5]
     [Ἐπὶ Πραξιέργο]υ 471/0  τραγωιδῶν               [κτλ.]
     [... ντὶς πα]ίδων       Ξενοκλῆς Ἀφιδνα: ἐχορή
     [... ἐχο]ρήγει          Αἰσχύλος ἐδίδασκεν
  20 [... ἀνδρ]ῶν            Ἐπὶ Ἅβρωνος 458/7
     [... ἐχ]ορήγ            Ἐρεχθηὶς παίδων
     [κωμωιδῶν]              Χαρίας Ἀγρυλῆ: ἐχορή
     [... ἐχορήγε]ι          Λεωντὶς ἀνδρῶν
     [κτλ.                   Δεινόστρατος ἐχορ[ήγει]
                             κωμωιδῶν
                             [... ἐχ]ορήγ[ει

The character of the Fasti will appear most clearly from Fig. 75,[374] a
transcript and restoration of two fragments on which were originally cut
the tops of cols. 3-5. The Greek letters within brackets are restorations
where the stone is broken away or illegible. Inasmuch as the entries
follow a fixed order from year to year and occupy a definite number of
lines, except as slight changes were occasionally introduced into the
program, it is often easy to restore everything but proper names. Of the
heading of the inscription, which extended over the first five columns,
only the center is preserved. When complete it probably read somewhat as
follows: οἵδε νενικήκασιν ... ἀφ’ οὗ πρῶτ]ον κῶμοι ἦσαν τῶ[ι Διονύσωι
Ἐλευθερεῖ (“The following gained the victory ... since first there were
comuses in honor of Dionysus Eleuthereus”). Let us examine more closely
the record of the year which begins at line nine in the second column
of Fig. 75 (col. 4 in the complete inscription). The entries for each
year begin with ἐπί (“in the time of”), followed by the name of the
Athenian archon eponymus in the genitive case. The archon for this year
was Philocles, whose term ran from July, 459 B.C., to July, 458 B.C.
Since the festivals came in the spring the record under consideration is
for the City Dionysia of 458 B.C. The inscription is so formulaic and
condensed that it has necessarily been expanded somewhat in the following
translation:

  In the archonship of Philocles.
    The tribe Oeneis was victorious with a dithyrambic chorus of boys;
    Demodocus was choregus.
    The tribe Hippothontis was victorious with a dithyrambic chorus of men;
    Euctemon of Eleusis was choregus.
    In the contest of comedians:
    Euryclides was choregus,
    Euphronius was didascalus.
    In the contest of tragedians:
    Xenocles of Aphidnae was choregus,
    Aeschylus was didascalus.

This was the year in which Aeschylus competed in Athens for the last time
and was victorious with his Orestean trilogy.

About 278 B.C. two other inscriptions were compiled from Aristotle’s
publication of theatrical records. I refer to the stone Didascaliae and
to the Victors’-Lists. The former gave the full program of the dramatic,
but not the dithyrambic, events for each year and fell into four
divisions, dealing respectively with tragedy and with comedy at each of
the two festivals. Fig. 76_a_[375] gives a transcript of two fragments
which reproduce the programs of tragedy at the City Dionysia in 341 and
340 B.C. They may be freely translated, as shown on p. 323.

[Illustration: FIG. 76_a_.—Wilhelm’s Transcription and Restoration of Two
Fragments of the Stone Didascaliae at Athens.

See p. 322, n. 1]

            [Ἐπὶ Σωσιγένους σατυρι] 342/1
            [— —]
            [παλαι]ᾶι Νε[οπτόλεμος]
            [Ἰφιγε]νείαι Εὐρ[ιπ]ίδο[υ]
            [ποη]: Ἀστυδάμας
            [Ἀχι]λλεῖ ὑπε: Θετταλός
       5    Ἀθάμαντι ὑπε: Νεοπτόλ[εμος]
            [Ἀν]τιγόνηι ὑπε: Ἀθηνόδω[ρος]
            [Εὐ]άρετος δ[εύ:] Τεύκρωι
            [ὑπ]ε: Ἀθηνόδωρος
            [Ἀχι]λλεῖ ὑ[πε]: Θετταλός
      10    [... ε]ι ὑπ[ε: Ν]εοπτόλεμος
            [Ἀφαρεὺς] τρί: Πελιάσιν
            [ὑπε: Νεοπτ]όλεμος
    -κι     Ὀρέστηι [ὑπε: Ἀθηνόδωρος]
            Αὔγηι ὑπε: Θεττα[λός]
          —
      15    ὑπο: Νεοπτόλεμος ἐνίκ[α]
          —
    ς     Ἐπὶ Νικομάχου σατυρι    341/0
            Τιμοκλῆς Λυκούργωι
          —
            παλαιᾶι: Νεοπτόλεμ[ος]
    -αι     Ὀρέστηι Εὐριπιδο
          —
      20    ποη: Ἀστυδάμας
            Παρθενοπαίωι ὑπε: Θετ[ταλός]
            [Λυκά]ονι ὑπε: Νεοπτόλε[μος]
            [...ο]κλῆς δεύ: Φρίξωι
    -ι      [ὑπε:] Θετταλός
      25    [Οἰδί]ποδι ὑπε: Νεοπτολ[εμος]
          —
            [Εὐάρ]ετος τρί
            [Ἀλκ]μέ[ων]ι: ὑπε: Θεττα[λός]
            [...λ]ηι: ὑπε: Νεοπτό[λε]
            [ὑπο: Θ[ετταλὸς ἐνίκα
      30  [Ἐπὶ Θεο]φράστου σα[τυρι 340/39
            [...] Φορκίσ[ι]
            [παλαιᾶι· Νικ?]όστρ[ατος]
            [... Εὐ]ριπί[δου]
            [...]ο [...

There are several matters here which are worthy of comment. It will be
noted that by 341 B.C. the tragic poets no longer closed each group of
plays with a satyric drama, but one satyr-play was performed instead as
a preface to the tragic contest. It followed that the playwrights, the
number of whose dramas now corresponded to that of the star performers,
were no longer handicapped by being allotted the exclusive services
of a single star and his troupe but were placed upon terms of perfect
equality by having all the stars in turn at their command, each for a
different tragedy. This explains why in 340 B.C., when we must suppose
that three players of the first rank with their supporting companies were
for some reason not available, the number of tragedies presented by each
playwright was likewise reduced to two and the histrionic talent was
thus kept evenly distributed. The fact that the tragic writers no longer
devoted whole trilogies to different aspects of the same theme made it
easy to reduce the number of tragedies in any year in order to conform
to an emergency in the histrionic conditions. Furthermore, old tragedies
were not now permitted to compete with new ones, as was said to have been
the practice in the case of Aeschylus’ plays after his decease (see p.
203, above); but beginning at the City Dionysia of 386 B.C., as we learn
from the Fasti, an old tragedy was performed, outside of the contest,
every year. It is interesting to observe that in both these years and
again in 339 B.C. (see next to the last line in Fig. 76_a_) plays of
Euripides were chosen for this purpose, and this is in accord with the
steady growth of that poet’s popularity as compared with Aeschylus and
Sophocles. As already stated, the Didascaliae were inscribed in 278 B.C.,
but the record was kept up to date by contemporaneous entries for over a
century subsequently.

[Illustration: FIG. 76_b_.—Translation of Inscription in Fig. 76_a_.]

    In the archonship of Sosigenes (342/1 B.C.). Satyr-play:
          ⸺ was poet with his ⸺.
          Old tragedy: Neoptolemus
          acted in Euripides’ _Iphigenia_.
          Poets: Astydamas was first
          with the _Achilles_ acted by Thettalus
          with the _Athamas_ acted by Neoptolemus
          with the _Antigone_ acted by Athenodorus;
          Evaretus was second with the _Teucer_
          acted by Athenodorus
          with the _Achilles_ acted by Thettalus
          with the ⸺ acted by Neoptolemus;
          Aphareus was third with the _Daughters of Pelias_
          acted by Neoptolemus
          with the _Orestes_ acted by Athenodorus
          with the _Auge_ acted by Thettalus;
          the actor Neoptolemus was victor.
    In the archonship of Nicomachus (341/0 B.C.). Satyr-play:
          Timocles was poet with his _Lycurgus_.
          Old tragedy: Neoptolemus
          acted in Euripides’ _Orestes_.
          Poets: Astydamas was first
          with the _Parthenopaeus_ acted by Thettalus
          with the _Lycaon_ acted by Neoptolemus;
          ⸺cles was second with the _Phrixus_
          acted by Thettalus
          with the _Oedipus_ acted by Neoptolemus;
          Evaretus was third
          with the _Alcmeon_ acted by Thettalus
          with the ⸺ acted by Neoptolemus;
          the actor Thettalus was victor.

The Victors’-Lists were prepared at the same time as the stone
Didascaliae and were likewise derived from Aristotle,[376] but they were
very different in character. They recorded the aggregate of victories
won by poets and actors in tragedy and comedy at each of the two
festivals—eight lists in all. I shall content myself with citing one
fragment from the list of tragic poets who were victorious at the City
Dionysia (cf. Fig. 77 _a_ and _b_).[377] The names were arranged in the
chronological order of their first victory at the festival in question,
in this case the City Dionysia; and after each name was entered the
total number of victories gained at that festival. We are especially
interested in two names in this list, Aeschylus and Sophocles. Of course
the former’s name did not originally head the list; it stood in the
eleventh line. The numeral is broken away from behind his name, but we
know from other sources that he won thirteen (ΔΙΙΙ) victories. He died
before the establishment of the tragic contest at the Lenaea, so that
his competition was restricted to the City Dionysia. But Suidas reports
that according to some Aeschylus had gained twenty-eight victories.
Perhaps the larger number is not to be rejected as worthless but is to
be regarded as including the victories which Aeschylus’ plays are said
to have won after his decease in competition, at both festivals, with
the works of living tragedians. To Sophocles the inscription assigns
eighteen (ΔΓΙΙΙ) victories at the City Dionysia, and that is the number
which most authorities give. But Suidas, who regularly records the
aggregate of victories at both festivals, credits him with twenty-four
victories. Sophocles must, therefore, have been victorious six times at
the Lenaea. Euripides’ name does not appear upon any extant portion of
the Victors’-List. He is usually stated to have won five victories, but
some notices report fifteen. Possibly we are to understand that he won
ten Lenaean victories. His comparative lack of success while living thus
stands in striking contrast to his popularity subsequently.

[Illustration: FIG. 77_a_.—A Fragment of the Athenian Victors’-List

See p. 324, n. 2]

[Illustration: FIG. 77_b_.—Wilhelm’s Transcription and Restoration of Two
Fragments of the Athenian Victors’-List.

See p. 324, n. 2]

                             [......]ασ[—]
                             [Καρκί]νος ΔΙ
    10 —                     [Ἀστ]υδάμας ΓΙΙ [—?]
       [Αἰ]σχύ[λος —]        [Θεο]δέκτας ΓΙΙ
       [Εὐ]έτης Ι            [Ἀφα]ρεύς ΙΙ
       [Πο]λυφράσμ[ων —]     [....ω]ν ΙΙ             Αι
       [Νόθ]ιππος Ι          ......                  Φρ-
    15 [Σοφ]οκλῆς ΔΓΙΙΙ      ......... ΙΙ            Ὁμ-
       [....]τος ΙΙ[—?]                              ΔΙ
       [Ἀριστι]ας [—]                                Ξ-

Dr. Reisch has propounded an ingenious and plausible theory with
reference to the housing of the Didascaliae and the Victors’-Lists (cf.
_op. cit._, pp. 302 ff.). He believes that these catalogues were prepared
for the master of contests (the agonothete, see p. 271, above) for the
year 278 B.C., who also erected a special structure in the precinct of
Dionysus Eleuthereus to receive them. The dedicatory inscription is
extant, but unfortunately the name of the agonothete is broken away. He
supposes this building to have been hexagonal, with three sides of solid
wall and the other three left open. This arrangement was designed to
afford a maximum of light for reading the inscriptions on the interior of
the building. On the left wall, as one passed through the main entrance,
were cut the tragic Didascaliae of the City Dionysia. On the architrave
above was the Victors’-List for the tragic poets at this festival, and
on the architrave over the adjoining (open) side to the right was the
Victors’-List for the tragic actors. On the next wall to the right were
the comic Didascaliae of the City Dionysia, and on the architrave above
that side and the adjoining (open) one were the Victors’-Lists of the
comic poets and actors who had won victories at this festival. On the
third wall stood both the comic and also the tragic Didascaliae of the
Lenaea. On the architrave above this wall were the Victors’-Lists of the
comic poets and actors at the Lenaea, and on the architrave above the
sixth (open) side were those of the tragic poets and actors at the same
festival. Dr. Reisch’s reconstruction may be incorrect in some minor
details, but must certainly be accepted in principle.

One matter in connection with all these inscriptions has been a subject
of keen controversy among scholars, and the end is not yet. The problem
is too complicated to be discussed upon its merits here, but the
general situation may be outlined. When a poet did not serve as his
own didascalus but brought out his play through someone else, did the
name of the didascalus or that of the poet appear in the records? On a
few points general agreement is possible. For example, when a poet had
applied for a chorus in his own name but died before the festival and
someone else had to assume his didascalic duties, care seems to have been
taken at all periods to indicate the original didascalus. Again, in cases
of deliberate deception, as when a man without dramatic powers secured
the consent of a playwright to bring out the latter’s work as his own
and applied for a chorus as if for his own play, naturally the name of
the pseudo-author would be the only one to appear in the records. The
crucial case remains, viz., when a dramatist wished to be relieved of the
burden of stage management and arranged for a didascalus to ask for a
chorus and assume responsibility for the performance. The matter becomes
important with reference to Aristophanes and the correct restoration of
the Victors’-Lists for comic poets at the City Dionysia and the Lenaea.

When Aristophanes had written his first play, the _Banqueters_, youth,
inexperience, diffidence, or some other motive for desiring to avoid
the responsibility of staging his play caused him to intrust it to
Callistratus for production at the Lenaea of 427 B.C. The same process
was repeated at the City Dionysia of 426 B.C. and the Lenaea of 425
B.C., when Callistratus brought out Aristophanes’ _Babylonians_ and
_Acharnians_, respectively. The former piece was apparently unsuccessful,
but the latter was awarded the first prize. At the Lenaea of 424 B.C.
Aristophanes was equally successful with the _Knights_, which, however,
he produced _in his own name_. In vss. 512 ff. of this play the chorus
declares that many Athenians approached the poet and expressed their
surprise that he had not long before asked for a chorus in his own name.
This passage implies that the real authorship of Aristophanes’ earlier
pieces was known to a large section of the public, and makes it clear
that he had produced no earlier plays in his own name. Therefore if
he had won a City victory during this period the comedy with which he
won it must have been brought out in the name of another. The earliest
City Dionysia, then, at which he could have produced a play in his own
name was in 424 B.C., two months later than the _Knights_. Now in the
Victors’-List for comic poets at the City Dionysia (Fig. 78),[378] the
letters Ἀρι appear in line seven of the second column. Is the name of
Aristophanes or that of Aristomenes to be restored here?

We know that Eupolis, whose name stands next below in the list, won a
victory at the City Dionysia of 421 B.C. and that Hermippus and Cratinus
were successful at the City festival in 422 and 423 B.C., respectively.
This leaves the City Dionysia of 424 B.C. for some unknown victor, who
may have been Aristophanes producing a play in his own name. But, on the
other hand, these victories of Hermippus and Cratinus were certainly not
their first, and it is possible that the victory of Eupolis in 421 B.C.
was also not his first. If any of these men was in fact the City victor
in 424 B.C., Aristophanes’ name could be read at this point on the stone
only by supposing that he had won a City victory at some date prior to
the _Knights_ and consequently with a play which had been brought out
by another. If this hypothesis is correct, it would automatically be
established that at this period victories were credited to the actual
poet rather than to his didascalus. The argument here is by no means
conclusive, however, and most authorities follow Dr. Wilhelm in restoring
the name of Aristomenes, another poet who belonged to the same general
period.

[Illustration: FIG. 78.—Wilhelm’s Transcription and Restoration of Four
Fragments of the Athenian Victors’-List.

See p. 327, n. 1]

    [Ἀστικαὶ ποητῶν]       [Τηλεκλεί]δης ΙΙΙ   Νικοφῶ[ν —]
    [κωμικῶν]              [.........]ς Ι      Θεόπομπ[ος —]
       [Χιωνίδης —]        —                   Κη]φισό[δοτος —]
       —                   —                   ...]ι[ππος? —]
     5 — Ι                 Φερ[εκράτης —]      —
       [.........]ς Ι      Ἕρμ[ιππος —]        —
       —                   Ἀρι[στομένης —]     —
       [Μάγνη]ς ΔΙ         Εὔ[πολις —]         —
       [......ο]ς Ι        Κα[λλίστρατος —]    —
    10 [Ἀλικιμέ]νη[ς] Ι    Φρύ[νιχος —]        —
       [......]ς Ι         Ἀμ[ειψίας —]        —
       [Εὐφρόν]ιος Ι       Πλά[των —]          —
       [Ἐκφαν]τίδης ΙΙΙΙ   Φιλ[ωνίδης —]       —
       [Κρατῖνος] ΓΙ       Λύκ[ις —]           —
    15 [Διοπ]είθης ΙΙ      Λεύ[κων —]          —
       [Κρά]της ΙΙΙ
       [Καλλία]ς ΙΙ

The same problem recurs in connection with the comic Victors’-List
for the Lenaea (Fig. 79).[379] Here Aristophanes’ name is certainly to
be restored somewhere in the lacuna below the name of Eupolis in the
first column. But whether his name stood in a position corresponding
to his own victory in 424 B.C. or in one corresponding to his victory
through the agency of Callistratus in the previous year, or whether (to
state it differently) the name of Callistratus must be restored ahead of
Aristophanes’ own name because of his victory in 425 B.C., are questions
which are still incapable of categorical answers. Lack of space will
prevent a further argument of the matter, and I must close with a summary
of Dr. Jachmann’s conclusions. His discussion is not only the latest but
takes certain factors into account which had previously been ignored.
He points out that the archons’ records, Aristotle’s _Didascaliae_,
and the different types of inscriptions must be sharply differentiated
and that the first named are the ultimate source of all the others.
The archons, of course, kept their records with no thought of later
literary investigations but mainly with a view to having a definite list
of men whom they were to hold responsible for different events upon
their programs. Naturally, then, they had no interest in current or
subsequent charges of plagiarism, pretended authorship, etc. Jachmann
maintains that prior to about 380 B.C. the archons entered the name of
the didascalus alone, but after that date they recorded the names of both
didascalus and poet when these differed. He supposes the change to have
been due to a law, which was made necessary by the increasing practice of
intrusting plays to men who were not their authors and to the consequent
differentiation of function between poets and didascali. According
to Jachmann the same situation probably obtained also in Aristotle’s
_Didascaliae_; but in the Victors’-Lists and the inscriptional
Didascaliae only the didascali were listed before 380 B.C. and after that
date only the poets. In the Fasti, on the contrary, only the didascali,
as the use of the verb ἐδίδασκε would indicate, appeared at any time.

[Illustration: FIG. 79.—Wilhelm’s Transcription and Restoration of Five
Fragments of the Athenian Victors’-List.

See p. 328, n. 1]

  [Ληναικ]α[ὶ ποη]τῶν Πο[.....] Ι      Φίλι[ππος Γ?]ΙΙ    —
  [κωμικ]ῶν           Με[ταγένη]ς ΙΙ   Χόρη[γος —]        Διο[νύσι]ος Ι
     [Ξ]ενόφιλος Ι    Θεό[πομπ]ος ΙΙ   Ἀναξα[νδρί]δης ΙΙΙ Κλέ[αρχ]ος [Ι.]
     [Τ]ηλεκλείδης Γ  Πολ[ύζηλο]ς ΙΙΙΙ Φιλέτα[ιρο]ς ΙΙ    Ἀθηνοκλῆς[
   5 Ἀριστομένης ΙΙ   Νικοφ[ῶν —]      Εὔβουλος ΓΙ        Πυρ[ήν?] Ι      5
     Κρατῖνος ΙΙΙ     Ἀπο[λλοφάνη]ς Ι   Ἔφιππος Ι[.?]     Ἀλκήνωρ Ι
     Φερεκράτης ΙΙ    Ἀμ[ειψίας —]     [Ἀ]ντιφάν[ης] ΓΙΙΙ Τιμοκλῆς Ι
     Ἕρμιππος ΙΙΙΙ    Ν[ικοχάρης —]    [Μ]νησίμ[αχος] Ι   Προκλείδης Ι
     Φρύνιχος ΙΙ      Ξενο[φ]ῶν Ι      Ναυ[σικράτ]ης ΙΙΙ  Μ[έν]ανδρος Ι[—
  10 Μυρτίλος Ι       Φιλύλλιος Ι      Εὐφάνη[ς —]        Φ[ι]λήμων ΙΙΙ  10
     [Εὔ]πολις ΙΙΙ    Φιλόνικος Ι      Ἄλεξις ΙΙ [—]      Ἀπολλόδωρο[ς—]
     —                [.......]ς Ι     [Ἀρ]ιστ[οφῶν —]    Δίφιλος ΙΙΙ
     —                [Κηφισόδοτος Ι   —                  Φιλιππίδης ΙΙ[—
     —                —                —                  Νικόστρατος [—
  15 —                —                —                  Καλλιάδης Ι    15
     —                —                —                  Ἀμεινίας Ι
     —                —                [Ἀσκληπιό?δω]ρος Ι Ι Ι Ι

Besides some other inscriptions of lesser importance than those already
discussed, Aristotle’s _Didascaliae_ was the source, directly or
indirectly, also of several treatises, collections of classified data,
catalogues, etc., dealing with various phases of Greek theatrical history
and compiled by such men as Dicaearchus, Callimachus, and Aristophanes of
Byzantium. I shall close with an account of one of these. I refer to the
system of numbering which was applied to ancient plays. Thus, according
to the ancient hypothesis (argument) to Sophocles’ _Antigone_ that drama
“was counted the thirty-second” (λέλεκται δὲ τὸ δρᾶμα τοῦτο τριακοστὸν
δεύτερον), and the first hypothesis to Aristophanes’ _Birds_ declares
that that comedy “is the thirty-fifth” (ἔστι δὲ λέ). Before going farther
it will be best to state that the latter numeral is inexplicable under
any theory, but that Dindorf’s substitution of ιέ for λέ (“fifteen” for
“thirty-five”) is a satisfactory and convincing emendation. With the
publication of the Vatican hypothesis to Euripides’ _Alcestis_ in 1834
a third numeral came to light: τὸ δρᾶμα ἐποιήθη ι̅ζ̅ (“the drama was
made seventeenth”). By far the most significant numeral, however, was
published in the _Oxyrhynchus Papyri_ in 1904. Here at the top of the
last column of a hypothesis to Cratinus’ lost _Dionysalexandros_ stood
the following heading, doubtless repeated from the beginning of the
hypothesis, which is now lost:

    Διονυσ[αλέξανδρος]   “The Dionysalexandros
             η̅                  Eighth
        κρατ[εινου]          Of Cratinus”

Finally, one of the fragmentary hypotheses to two of Menander’s plays
published in the _Oxyrhynchus Papyri_ of 1914 begins as follows: “The
_Imbrians_, commencing ‘For how long a time, Demeas, my good man, I ...
you.’ This he wrote in the archonship of Nicocles, being his [7·]th
play (ταύτην [ἔγρα]ψεν ἐπὶ Νικοκλέο[υς..]την καὶ ἑβδομηκοστ[ήν]), and
he gave it for production at the Dionysia; but on account of the tyrant
Lachares the festival was not celebrated. Subsequently it was acted by
the Athenian Callippus.” This numeral is partly illegible, but was in
the seventies, probably seventy-first, seventy-third, seventy-sixth, or
seventy-ninth, possibly seventy-fourth or seventy-fifth.

The interpretation of these numerals has suffered from the fact that
they did not become known simultaneously and from the further fact
that for the most part explanations have been advanced by editors who
contented themselves with proposing the most plausible interpretation
of the particular numeral before them without taking the others into
consideration. Of the many suggestions offered I shall here confine
my discussion to two, the chronological and the alphabetical. The
former interpretation is the oldest and receives confirmation from the
fact that Terence’s comedies are not only arranged chronologically
in our manuscripts but are provided with numerals on that basis in
the didascalic notices which are prefixed to these Latin plays. These
numbers, of course, would trace back the system only to the Romans
and to about the time of Varro in the first century b.c. But inasmuch
as Aeschines’ speeches are arranged on the same principle, there can
be no doubt that the Alexandrian Greeks were familiar with it. The
chronological interpretation, however, has been open to three objections:
(1) It is impossible for Aristophanes’ _Birds_ to have been thirty-fifth
in a chronological arrangement of his plays. This obstacle may be evaded
by accepting Dindorf’s emendation. (2) The _Antigone_ and _Alcestis_
numerals are somewhat smaller than we might expect, since they seem to
assign too few plays to the earlier years of Sophocles’ and Euripides’
activity as playwrights. This is not a serious objection but must be
taken into account. (3) The _Alcestis_ took the place of a satyric drama
and therefore stood fourth in its group. Consequently its numeral ought
to be divisible by four, and the number seventeen does not satisfy this
requirement and does not seem consistent with the tetralogic system
employed at the City Dionysia during this period.

These difficulties are not insuperable, but first I wish to refer to
another interpretation, which has enjoyed great popularity. There is
no doubt that the Greeks were acquainted, and at an early date, with
the alphabetical arrangement of titles. The Oxyrhynchus arguments to
Menander’s plays, for example, seem to have been arranged in accordance
with this principle. The objection that there would be no point in
recording numerals derived from an alphabetical system for the reason
that it would be as easy to turn to a given play by means of its initial
letters as by means of its number is invalid because in alphabetical
lists the Greeks ignored all letters except the first. For example,
fifteen of Euripides’ extant titles begin with alpha, and there was no
a priori method of knowing which of the fifteen places available the
_Alcestis_ would occupy (Fig. 80).[380] It becomes necessary, then, to
examine the alphabetical explanation without prejudice, and fortunately
it is now possible to reach an incontrovertible conclusion. The numerals
have never lent themselves cordially to this interpretation, but the
final _coup de grâce_ was delivered by the recent discovery of the
numeral for Menander’s _Imbrians_. Menander is said to have written from
one hundred and five to one hundred and nine pieces, but only eighty-six
titles are now known. Fifty-one of these, however, have initial letters
which come after iota in the Greek alphabet. Now the smallest restoration
which is possible for the Menander numeral is seventy-one, and
seventy-one plus fifty-one make one hundred and twenty-two, or thirteen
more than the largest number recorded by any authority as the aggregate
of Menander’s works. Therefore the alphabetical explanation must be
rejected.

[Illustration: FIG. 80.—The Villa Albani Statue of Euripides in the
Louvre with the Beginning of an Alphabetical List of His Plays.

See p. 332, n. 1]

We may now return to the chronological interpretation, and first let
us note the light which the _Dionysalexandros_ numeral throws upon the
situation. It is significant that this number is not incorporated within
the hypothesis but stood at the top of the last column and had doubtless
appeared also at the beginning of the hypothesis (now lost). In my
opinion this was the original form of such a notice and shows why in the
fuller form of statement found elsewhere a different verb is employed
in each case—λέλεκται, ἔστι, ἐποιήθη, and ἔγραψεν. When Aristophanes of
Byzantium, or whoever was responsible for the change, transferred these
items from the heading and made them integral parts of the hypothesis,
finding no verb in the original version before him and resting under the
necessity of now using one, he did not deem it essential to paraphrase
the information always in the same way but, as was natural, employed now
one expression and now another. If it be true that the original function
of the numerals was as we find it in the Cratinus hypothesis, only one
explanation is possible—it was a device for the convenience of some
library, probably that at Alexandria. If so, every play in the collection
would bear a number and these numbers would run consecutively for each
author. In other words if any play were not preserved in the library,
that fact would not be indicated by an unoccupied number being left as
a gap in the enumeration. Of course it is conceivable that the basis
of arrangement was purely arbitrary and even varied with each author,
and in fact there has been a distinct tendency among recent authorities
to accept some such pessimistic conclusion. But it is more probable,
until the contrary be proved, that some rational system (alphabetical,
chronological, etc.) was employed and employed consistently.

Now there can be little room left for doubt as to what system was
actually chosen, when it is observed that the foregoing statement of the
numerals’ purpose and use obviates two of the three objections to the
chronological interpretation. Euripides produced his first play in 455
B.C. and died in 406 B.C. He is said to have written ninety-two plays,
or an average of one and four-fifths per annum. If the _Alcestis_ were
actually his seventeenth piece he must have written less than one play
a year between 455 B.C. and 438 B.C., when the _Alcestis_ was produced,
and two and one-third plays a year thereafter. It is true that Euripides’
career opened slowly and that many of his later works are characterized
by hasty and careless execution. But this disparity is too great, even
apart from the objection that _ex hypothesi_ the _Alcestis_ numeral ought
to be a multiple of four. If we suppose, however, that only the plays
that were preserved received a number, the situation at once clears.
We are informed that seventy-eight of Euripides’ works (four of them
spurious) were preserved. This is confirmed by the fact that seventy-two
of his titles are now known, for the number of titles now extant
generally approximates closely the number of an author’s plays which
were known by the ancients. If, then, the _Alcestis_ was seventeenth
among the seventy-eight works which were passing under the name of
Euripides in antiquity and if it retained the same relative position as
in the complete list, it must have been about the twentieth play which
he brought out. This number, being divisible by four, would be suitable
for the last play of a tetralogy and would have the merit of reducing
slightly the disproportion between the earlier and the later activity
of the poet. Moreover, since the earlier plays of a dramatist are more
likely to have been lost than the later ones, it is possible to suppose
that the _Alcestis_ may have been twenty-fourth or even twenty-eighth
in a complete list (chronological) of his writings. The point is that
the purpose of the numerals as deducible from the _Dionysalexandros_
instance is capable of obviating all objections to the chronological
interpretation of the _Alcestis_ numeral.

Similarly, Sophocles is said to have written one hundred and twenty-three
plays, and his career extended from about 468 B.C. to 406 B.C., yielding
an average of about two plays per annum. Inasmuch as the _Antigone_ was
probably performed in 441 B.C. and bears the numeral thirty-two, an
unmodified chronological interpretation would give an average of one
and one-seventh plays a year for Sophocles’ earlier period and of two
and three-sevenths for his later period. But we now have fragments of
somewhat more than one hundred Sophoclean plays; and if the _Antigone_
was thirty-second among these and retained the same relative position
as at first, it would have been about the thirty-seventh play which
Sophocles wrote. Of course this is a mere estimate, but again this
solution has the merit of assigning a slightly larger number of plays to
the earlier years of the poet and of reducing, to that extent, the only
objection to the chronological interpretation of this numeral.

Aristophanes’ first comedy was produced in 427 B.C., and his last one
not much later than 388 B.C. To him were attributed forty-four plays,
four of which were considered spurious. Apparently all of his works were
known to the ancients. The _Birds_ was produced at the City Dionysia
of 414 B.C. in the fourteenth year of his activity as a playwright.
There is, therefore, no a priori reason for refusing to believe that it
was Aristophanes’ fifteenth play. Nor does any obstacle arise from the
chronology of the plays, so far as they can be dated. On the other hand
the traditional numeral, thirty-five, is inexplicable under any logical
system of enumeration, while Dindorf’s emendation is paleographically
simple. Therefore we must accept the substitution and the chronological
interpretation.

Cratinus’ career began about 452 B.C. and closed in 423 B.C. or soon
thereafter. Most scholars suppose his _Dionysalexandros_ to have been
brought out in 430 or 429 B.C., though I was myself at first inclined
to favor an earlier date. He is said to have written twenty-one plays.
Twenty-six titles, however, were accepted for him by Meineke and Kock
in their editions of the Greek comic fragments. Probably a few of these
titles must be rejected as spurious or transferred to the younger
Cratinus, but it is also possible that Cratinus was much more productive
than is commonly supposed and that twenty-one was the number of his
preserved works in Alexandrian times, not of all that he had composed.
As the custom of publishing comedies seems to have started only at about
the beginning of Cratinus’ career (see p. 55, above), it would not be
surprising if many of his plays, especially of his earlier plays, were
lost. At any rate in a chronological arrangement of twenty-one comedies,
whether they were the whole or only the preserved part of Cratinus’
work, the _Dionysalexandros_ could be the eighth. These conclusions
are acceptable to Professor R. H. Tanner, who will shortly publish a
dissertation dealing with the chronology of Cratinus’ plays and whose
results on the point now under discussion he has kindly permitted me to
summarize here. He follows Croiset in assigning the _Dionysalexandros_
to the Lenaea of 430 B.C.; six plays he definitely dates before the
_Dionysalexandros_, and a seventh somewhat less positively. In the
thirteen remaining he has found nothing to indicate a date prior to 430
B.C. Some of them certainly belong to the period subsequent to 430 B.C.
It will be seen that these conclusions are in thorough accord with my
interpretation of the numeral.

The chronology of Menander’s life is not free from uncertainties, but
these do not seriously affect the present discussion. His first play was
performed perhaps as early as 324 B.C., and his decease probably took
place in 292/1 B.C. During these thirty-three or thirty-four years he
composed some one hundred and nine pieces or slightly over three per
annum. Now Nicocles was archon in 302/1 B.C. If, then, the hypothesis
is correct in assigning the _Imbrians_ to the archonship of this man,
the number seventy-one (the smallest restoration which is possible)
or seventy-nine (the largest possible) would almost perfectly fit the
requirements of the case. Eighty-six Menandrian titles are now known, and
it is not likely that many of his plays were lost in Alexandrian times.

We may, therefore, summarize the preceding discussion as follows: If we
follow Dindorf in reading ιέ for λέ in the hypothesis to Aristophanes’
_Birds_, the numerals are capable of a uniform interpretation; they
were a library device and were assigned to the plays represented in
some collection, most probably that at Alexandria, according to the
dates of their premières. It is needless to state that in establishing
the chronological sequence of the plays in their possession the library
authorities would depend upon Aristotle’s _Didascaliae_ or other
handbooks derived therefrom.




FOOTNOTES


[1] Cf. Hermann Deckinger, _Die Darstellung der persönlichen Motive bei
Aischylos und Sophokles_ (1911), p. 1.

[2] Cf. Aristotle _Poetics_ 1449_a_8. The other passages cited in this
paragraph are _ibid._ 1449_b_33 and 1450_a_10, 1450_b_17-21, 1453_b_1-3,
1462_a_12, and 1462_a_14-17.

[3] Cf. his paper entitled “Dramatic Criticism and the Theatre” in
_Creative Criticism_, p. 56 (1917).

[4] Cf. Aristotle _Rhetoric_ 1403_b_33 (Jebb’s translation). This
statement needs to be interpreted in the light of pp. 190 f., below.

[5] Cf. _op. cit._, p. 56. The italics are mine.

[6] Cf. Clayton Hamilton, _The Theory of the Theatre_ (1910), p. 3;
and J. B. Matthews, _North American Review_, CLXXXVII (1908), 213 f.:
“They believe that the playhouse has now, has had in the past, and must
always have a monopoly of the dramatic form. They cannot recognize the
legitimacy of a play which is not intended to be played. They know that
the great dramatist of every period when the drama has flourished has
always planned his plays for performance in the theater of his own time,
by the actors of his own time, and before the spectators of his own
time”; and _The Independent_, LXVIII (1910), 187: “In other words, the
literary quality is something that may be added to a drama, but which is
not essential to its value as a play in the theater itself.”

[7] Cf. _Conversations with Eckermann_, March 28, 1827 (Oxenford’s
translation).

[8] Cf. _The Inn of Tranquillity_ (1912), p. 277.

[9] Cf. _Classical Philology_, IX (1914), 96.

[10] Cf. _Euripides and His Age_ (1913), p. 89. See p. 217, below.

[11] Cf. _The Theatre of Ideas_ (1915), pp. 9 ff. (copyrighted by the
George H. Doran Company).

[12] Cf. Welcker, _Nachtrag zu der Schrift über die Aeschylische Trilogie
nebst einer Abhandlung über das Satyrspiel_ (1826); Furtwängler, “Der
Satyr aus Pergamon,” _Berliner Winckelmannsfest Programm_, XL (1880);
U. von Wilamowitz-Möllendorff, _Einleitung in die griechische Tragödie_
[Vol. I of his edition of Euripides’ _Heracles_ (1889)], pp. 43 ff. and
_Neue Jahrbücher für das klassische Altertum_, XXIX (1912), 464 ff.;
Bethe, _Prolegomena zur Geschichte des Theaters im Altherthum_ (1896);
G. Körte, “Satyrn und Böcke,” in Bethe’s _Prolegomena_, pp. 339 ff.;
Wernicke, “Bockschöre und Satyrdrama,” _Hermes_, XXXII (1897), 290
ff.; Schmid, _Zur Geschichte des gr. Dithyrambus_ (1901); Reisch, “Zur
Vorgeschichte der attischen Tragödie,” in _Festschrift Theodor Gomperz_
(1902), pp. 451 ff.; Crusius, _s.v._ “Dithyrambos,” in Pauly-Wissowa,
_Real-Encyclopädie_, V, 1203 ff. (1903); Dieterich, “Die Entstehung
der Tragödie,” _Archiv für Religionswissenschaft_, XI (1908), 163 ff.
[Kleine Schriften, pp. 414 ff.]; Farnell, _Cults of the Greek States_,
V, 85 ff., and especially pp. 224 ff. (1909), and “The Megala Dionysia
and the Origin of Tragedy,” _Journal of Hellenic Studies_, XXIX (1909),
xlvii; Ridgeway, _The Origin of Tragedy with Special Reference to
the Greek Tragedians_ (1910), and _The Dramas and Dramatic Dances of
Non-European Races in Special Reference to the Origin of Greek Tragedy_
(1915), reviewed by Flickinger in _Classical Weekly_, XI (1918), 107 ff.;
Nilsson, “Der Ursprung der Tragödie,” _Neue Jahrbücher für das klassische
Altertum_, XXVII (1911), 609 ff. and 673 ff.; Jane Harrison, _Themis,
a Study of the Social Origins of Greek Religion_ (1912); Murray, “The
Ritual Forms Preserved in Greek Tragedy,” in Miss Harrison’s _Themis_,
pp. 341 ff.; Flickinger, “Tragedy and Satyric Drama,” _Classical
Philology_, VIII (1913), 261 ff.; and Cook, _Zeus, a Study in Ancient
Religion_, I (1914), 665 ff. and 695 ff.

[13] Cf. Lawson, _Annual of British School at Athens_, VI (1900), 125
ff.; Dawkins, _ibid._, XI (1905), 72 ff.; and Wace, _ibid._, XVI (1910),
232 ff.

[14] Cf. Suidas, _s.v._ “Phrynichus.”

[15] Cf. _Euripides the Rationalist_, p. 243.

[16] Cf. von Wilamowitz, _Neue Jahrbücher f. kl. Altertum_, XXIX (1912),
474, and Cook, _Zeus_, I, xiii f.

[17] Cf. his _Aristotle on the Art of Poetry_, p. 135. This opinion
is confirmed by the fact that men of such importance as Thespis and
Phrynichus are not so much as mentioned in the _Poetics_.

[18] Cf. _Poetics_ 1449_a_9-11: γενομένη <δ’> ἀπ’ ἀρχῆς αὐτοσχεδιαστική,
... καὶ ἡ μὲν ἀπὸ τῶν ἐξαρχόντων τὸν διθύραμβον.

[19] Cf. _Laws_ 700 B: καὶ ἄλλο (sc. εἶδος ᾠδῆς) Διονύσου γένεσις, οἶμαι,
διθύραμβος λεγόμενος.

[20] Cf. Bergk, _Poetae Lyrici Graeci⁴_, II, 404, fr. 77:

    ὡς Διονύσοι’ ἄνακτος καλὸν ἐξάρξαι μέλος
    οἶδα διθύραμβον, οἴνῳ συγκεραυνωθεὶς φρένας.

[21] Cf. _ibid._, III, 559, fr. 1, vs. 16.

[22] Cf. _Olymp._ XIII, 18 f.:

    ταὶ Διονύσου πόθεν ἐξέφανεν
    σὺν βοηλάτᾳ χάριτες διθυράμβῳ;

Βοηλάτᾳ is usually explained by reference to the ox prize, cf. schol.
Plato, _Republic_, 394C: εὑρεθῆναι μὲν τὸν διθύραμβον ἐν Κορίνθῳ ὑπὸ
Ἀρίονός φασι. τῶν δὲ ποιητῶν τῷ μὲν πρώτῳ βοῦς ἔπαθλον ἦν, τῷ δὲ δευτέρῳ
ἀμφορεύς, τῷ δὲ τρίτῳ τράγος, ὃν τρυγὶ κεχρισμένον ἀπῆγον. Kern, Crusius,
and Ridgeway, however, refer it to the practice of an Arcadian community,
the Cynaethaens, of whom Pausanias (viii. 19. 1) speaks as follows: “And
as to the things most worthy of mention there is a shrine of Dionysus
there, and in the winter season they celebrate a festival, in which men
who have anointed themselves with oil lift up a bull from the herd,
whatever one the god himself puts in their minds to lift, and carry it to
the shrine. Such was their manner of sacrifice.” Cf. Pauly-Wissowa, V,
1041 and 1206, and _Origin of Tragedy_, p. 6.

[23] Cf. Kaibel, _Comicorum Graecorum Fragmenta_, p. 115, fr. 132;

    οὐκ ἔστι διθύραμβος ὅκχ’ ὕδωρ πίῃς.

[24] Published by Rabe in _Rheinisches Museum für Philologie_, LXIII
(1908), 150.

[25] Cf. Aristotle’s _Poetics_ 1448_b_1: καὶ τὸ ποιεῖν αὐτοὶ [sc. οἱ
Δωριεῖς] μὲν δρᾶν, Ἀθηναίους δὲ πράττειν προσαγορεύειν. In referring to
this passage von Wilamowitz says: “So viel wahr ist, dass δρᾶμα in der
Tat ein Fremdwort ist; man redet im Kultus nur von δρώμενα”; cf. _op.
cit._, p. 467, n. 3.

[26] Cf. Haigh, _The Tragic Drama of the Greeks_ (1896), p. 17, n. 1,
and Pickard-Cambridge in _Classical Review_, XXVI (1912), 54. It is also
possible that Arion’s employment of a new generic term (δράματα) for his
dithyrambs is alluded to. Herodotus may have taken it as a matter of
course that everyone knew what this new name was and consequently failed
to mention it, thus leaving the passage ambiguous.

[27] Cf. Suidas, _s.v._ “Arion”: λέγεται καὶ τραγικοῦ τρόπου εὑρετὴς
γενέσθαι καὶ πρῶτος χορὸν στῆσαι <κύκλιον> καὶ διθύραμβον ᾆσαι καὶ
ὀνομάσαι τὸ ᾀδόμενον ὑπὸ τοῦ χοροῦ καὶ σατύρους εἰσενεγκεῖν ἔμμετρα
λέγοντας. I cannot agree with Reisch, _op. cit._, p. 471, and
Pickard-Cambridge, _op. cit._, p. 54, in thinking that this notice refers
to three separate types of performances instead of one.

[28] See p. 7, n. 4, above.

[29] Cf. Pickard-Cambridge, _op. cit._, p. 55.

[30] Cf. Suidas, _s.v._ “Thespis”: Θέσπις Ἰκαρίου πόλεως Ἀττικῆς,
τραγικὸς ἑκκαιδέκατος ἀπὸ τοῦ πρώτου γενομένου τραγῳδιοποιοῦ Ἐπιγένους
τοῦ Σικυωνίου τιθέμενος, ὡς δέ τινες, δεύτερος μετὰ Ἐπιγένην· ἄλλοι δὲ
αὐτὸν πρῶτον τραγικὸν γενέσθαι φασί.

[31] Cf. Suidas, _s.v._, Photius, _s.v._, and Apostolius xiii. 42:
Ἐπιγένου τοῦ Σικυωνίου τραγῳδίαν εἰς τὸν Διόνυσον ποιήσαντος, ἐπεφώνησάν
τινες τοῦτο· ὅθεν ἡ παροιμία.

[32] Cf. _The Origin of Tragedy_, p. 58.

[33] About a dozen explanations in addition to those discussed in the
text are listed and criticized in _Classical Philology_, VIII (1913), 269
ff.

[34] Cf. Jacoby, _Das Marmor Parium_, p. 14: ἀφ’ οὖ Θέσπις ὁ ποιητὴς
[ὑπεκρίνα]το πρῶτος, ὃς ἐδίδαξη [δρ]ᾶ[μα ἐν ἄ]στ[ει καὶ ἆθλον ἐ]τέθη ὁ
[τ]ράγος, ἔτη ΗΗ𐅄[ΔΔ·], ἄρχοντος Ἀθ[ήνησι] ... ναιου τοῦ προτέρου.

[35] Cf. _op. cit._, ρ. 468: “An der Tatsache, dass in älterer Zeit dem
Tragödenchor ein Bock als Preis (der als Opferthier und Opferschmaus
dienen sollte), gegeben wurde, wie dem Dithyrambenchor zu gliechem Zwecke
ein Stier, daran zu zweifeln ist kein Grund.”

[36] Cf. _op. cit._, p. 59: “Since the interpretation of τραγῳδία as
the ‘song of the men in goat-costume’ must be given up, the word can be
interpreted as the ‘song _around_’ or ‘_for_ the goat’—whether the goat
be sacrifice or prize.”

[37] Cf. Eusebius’ _Chronica_, Ol. 47, 2 (591-590 B.C.; Armenian version,
Ol. 48, 1): τοῖς ἀγωνιζομένοις παρ’ Ἕλλησι τράγος ἐδίδοτο, ἀφ’ οὖ καὶ
τραγικοὶ ἐκλήθησαν. Jerome’s Latin version reads: “his temporibus
certantibus in agone (de voce _add._ R) tragus, id est hircus, in praemio
dabatur. Unde aiunt tragoedos nuncupatos.”

[38] Contrary to Herodotus, these choruses were τραγικοί only after the
transfer, not before—a negligible error.

[39] Of course, it is possible to argue that goats may have been
sacrificed to Adrastus and that τραγικός and τραγῳδός were consequently
older terms than is maintained in the text; this would also explain why
the goat was continued as a prize after the sacrifice proper had been
given over to Melanippus. Cf., however, Farnell, _Cults of the Greek
States_, V, 233 and note _d_.

[40] Cf. Plato _Minos_ 321A: ἡ δὲ τραγῳδία ἐστὶ παλαιὸν ἐνθάδε, οὐχ ὡς
οἴονται ἀπὸ Θέσπιδος ἀρξαμένη οὐδ’ ἀπὸ Φρυνίχου, ἀλλ’ εἰ θέλεις ἐννοῆσαι,
πάνυ παλαιὸν αὐτὸ εὑρήσεις ὂν τῆσδε τῆς πόλεως εὕρημα.

[41] Cf. _Prolegomena to the Study of Greek Religion²_ (1908), p. 568.
Of course, I do not mean to deny that impersonation was subsequently
borrowed from true drama by rites of various kinds which had not
contained it at first. This situation probably obtained with reference to
the Eleusinian mysteries in their later forms.

The indebtedness of tragedy to epic poetry for subject matter, dignity
of treatment and of diction, and development of plot, including such
technical devices as recognition (ἀναγνώρισις) and reversal of situation
(περιπέτεια) is too well established to require argument. Aeschylus
is said to have declared that his tragedies were “slices from Homer’s
bountiful banquets” (Athenaeus, p. 347E). The pertinent passages from
Aristotle’s _Poetics_ have been conveniently assembled by Throop, “Epic
and Dramatic,” _Washington University Studies_, V (1917), 1 ff.

[42] Cf. Plutarch _Solon_ xxix. If Thespis treated the traditional myths
with some freedom, that may have added to Solon’s anger.

[43] Cf. Diogenes Laertius iii. 56: τὸ παλαιὸν ἐν τῇ τραγῳδίᾳ πρότερον
μὲν μόνος ὁ χορὸς διεδραμάτιζεν, ὕστερον δὲ Θέσπις ἕνα ὑποκριτὴν ἐξεῦρεν
ὑπὲρ τοῦ διαναπαύεσθαι τὸν χορόν.

[44] Cf. _The Origin of Tragedy_, p. 60.

[45] Cf. Hiller, _Rheinisches Museum für Philologie_, XXXIX (1884), 329.

[46] Cf. Horace _Ars Poetica_, vs. 276:

    dicitur et plaustris vexisse poemata Thespis.

[47] Cf. _Kleine Schriften_, p. 422, and _Neue Jahrbücher für das
klassische Altertum_, XXIX (1912), 474.

[48] Cf. Suidas, _s.v._ “Thespis”: μνημονεύεται δὲ τῶν δραμάτων αὐτοῦ
Ἆθλα Πελίου ἢ Φόρβας, Ἱερεῖς, Ἠίθεοι, Πενθεύς.

[49] Cf. Diogenes Laertius v. 92. Both Aristoxenus and Heraclides were
pupils of Aristotle.

[50] Cf. Ridgeway, _op. cit._, p. 69.

[51] Cf. Suidas, _s.v._ οὐδὲν πρὸς τὸν Διόνυσον (quoted on p. 29, n. 2,
below).

[52] The cognomen was due to the belief that the image and cult were
derived from Eleutherae. At Eleutherae itself, however, his cognomen
would naturally be different. There he was known as Διόνυσος Μελάναιγις,
“Dionysus of the Black-Goat-Skin.” From this fact an abortive attempt has
recently been made to derive a new explanation for tragic performances
being denominated “goat-songs”; cf. _Classical Philology_, VIII (1913),
270.

[53] Cf. _Marmor Parium_ (quoted on p. 14, n. 2, above).

[54] Cf. _Poetics_ 1449_a_19 ff., Bywater’s translation.

[55] Cf. _op. cit._, p. 472. This exegesis has now been commended by
Pickard-Cambridge; cf. _Classical Review_, XXVI (1912), 53. Cornford has
expressed the same view by means of a neat paraphrase: ἐκ σατυρικοῦ εἰς
σεμνὸν μετέβαλεν, cf. _The Origin of Attic Comedy_ (1914), p. 214, n. 1.
Gomperz’ translation (1897) reads as follows: “Was das Wachstum ihrer
Grossartigkeit anlangt, so hat sich das Trauerspiel im Gegensatze zur
ursprünglichen Kleinheit der Fabeln und der zum Possenhaften neigenden
Artung der Diction ihres satyrspielartigen Ursprungs wegen erst spät zu
höherer Würde erhoben.... Ursprünglich hatte man sich nämlich, da die
Dichtung satyrhaft und mehr balletartig war, des trochäischen Tetrameters
bedient.”

[56] Cf. _Poetics_ 1449_a_22 f., Butcher’s translation.

[57] In 467 B.C. Aristias concluded his tragedies with the _Palaestae_,
“a satyric drama of his father Pratinas” (cf. arg. Aesch. _Seven
against Thebes_). It is generally supposed that this was a posthumous
piece. But Professor Capps suggests that Pratinas may frequently have
provided a satyr-play for someone’s else trilogy, and thus explains
the disproportionate number of satyric dramas in Pratinas’ list and of
tragedies in other poets’ lists.

[58] Cf. Suidas, _s.v._ “Pratinas”: ... Φλιάσιος, ποιητὴς τραγῳδίας,
ἀντηγωνίζετο Αἰσχύλῳ τε καὶ Χοιρίλῳ, ἐπὶ τῆς ἑβδομηκοστῆς Ὀλυμπιάδος, καὶ
πρῶτος ἔγραψε Σατύρους ... καὶ δράματα μὲν ἐπεδείξατο νʹ, ὦν Σατυρικὰ
λβʹ. ἐνίκησε δὲ ἅπαξ. Note that the earliest name was simply Σάτυροι,
“satyrs.” Murray has proposed another interpretation of Suidas’ phrase:
“I take this to mean that Pratinas was the first person to write words
for the revelling masquers to learn by heart. Thespis, like many early
Elizabethans, had been content with a general direction: ‘Enter Satyrs,
in revel, saying anything’” (incorporated in Miss Harrison’s _Themis_, p.
344). Nevertheless, he adds that he “does not wish to combat” the other
view.

[59] Fig. 3 is taken from Furtwängler and Reichhold, _Griechische
Vasenmalarei_, first series, II, Pls. 11-12. The _membrum virile_ has
been omitted in the reproduction.

[60] Cf. _op. cit._, I, 696 f.

[61] This was originally assembled by Hartwig in _Römische
Mittheilungen_, XII (1897), 89 ff. and Wernicke, _op. cit._ It is now
conveniently summarized by Cook, _op. cit._, pp. 697 ff.

[62] Fig. 4 is taken from Baumeister, _Denkmäler_, Fig. 422. The two
craters at Deepdene are illustrated in Cook, _op. cit._, Pl. XXXIX, Figs.
1-2.

[63] The three dinoi are discussed by Miss Bieber in _Athenische
Mitteilungen_, XXXVI (1911), 269 ff. and Pl. XIII, Figs. 1-3 and Pl. XIV,
Figs. 1-5. My Figs. 5-7 are taken from her publication, corresponding
to Pl. XIII, Fig. 1, Pl. XIV, Fig. 4, and Pl. XIV, Figs, 1 and 2
respectively. Cook maintains that all six vases are descended from a
fresco by Polygnotus, _op. cit._, pp. 700 f.; but this suggestion seems
improbable.

[64] Cf. De Prott, “De Amphora Neapolitana Fabulae Satyricae Apparatum
Scaenicum Repraesentante,” in _Schedae Philologicae Hermanno Usener
Oblatae_ (Bonn, 1891), pp. 47 ff. It seems strange that De Prott should
mar his own interpretation by supposing the figure whom I have called
Hesione to be a Muse. The Scythian cap ought to be decisive.

[65] Cf. Miss Bieber, _op. cit._, Pl. XIV, Fig. 3.

[66] Except the eleventh and twelfth choreutae on the Naples crater (Fig.
4), viz., the figure with a lyre near the middle of the lower row and the
fully clad figure next to the last on the right. If De Prott is correct
in considering these figures choreutae, they must be regarded (I suppose)
as having not yet completed their make-up.

[67] Fig. 8 is taken from Baumeister, _Denkmäler_, Fig. 424. The
choreutae in this scene are not to be understood as having no tails;
their position does not permit this feature to be seen, cf. Haigh, _The
Attic Theatre³_, p. 293, note.

[68] Cf. _Etymologicum Magnum_, _s.v._: τραγῳδία: ... ἢ ὅτι τὰ πολλὰ οἱ
χοροὶ ἐκ σατύρων συνίσταντο, οὓς ἐκάλουν τράγους σκώπτοντες ἢ διὰ τὴν τοῦ
σώματος δασύτητα ἢ διὰ τὴν περὶ τὰ ἀφροδίσια σπουδήν· τοιοῦτον γὰρ τὸ
ζῷον. ἢ ὅτι οἱ χορευταὶ τὰς κόμας ἀνέπλεκον, σχῆμα τράγων μιμούμενοι.

[69] Cf. Horace _Ars Poetica_, vss. 220 f:

    carmine qui tragico vilem certavit ob hircum,
    mox etiam agrestis Satyros nudavit, etc.

[70] Cf. Suidas and Photius, _s.v._ οὐδὲν πρὸς τὸν Διόνυσον and
Apostolius xiii. 42. After giving the explanation of this phrase already
cited on p. 12, n. 3, above, they continue: βέλτιον δὲ οὕτως, τὸ πρόσθεν
εἰς τὸν Διόνυσον γράφοντες τούτοις ἠγωνίζοντο, ἅπερ καὶ Σατυρικὰ ἐλέγετο·
ὕστερον δὲ μεταβάντες εἰς τὸ τραγῳδίας γράφειν, κατὰ μικρὸν εἰς μύθους
καὶ ἱστορίας ἐτράπησαν, μηκέτι τοῦ Διονύσου μνημονεύοντες, ὅθεν τοῦτο
καὶ ἐπεφώνησαν. καὶ Χαμαιλέων ἐν τῷ Περὶ Θέσπιδος τὰ παραπλήσια ἱστορεῖ.
The word παραπλήσια leaves it doubtful for how much of this notice
Chamaeleon (Aristotle’s pupil) should be held responsible. But at the
most his accountability cannot extend beyond explaining the introduction
of non-Dionysiac themes; the side remarks are Byzantine.

[71] Cf. von Wilamowitz, _N. Jahrbücher f. kl. Altertum_, XXIX (1912),
461, and Tanner, _Transactions American Philological Association_, XLVI
(1915), 173 ff.

[72] Fig. 9 is taken from the _Journal of Hellenic Studies_, XI (1890),
Pl. XI, and is reproduced by permission of the Council of the Hellenic
Society.

[73] Reisch, _op. cit._, pp. 456 f., considers the goat-men Pans, or
choreutae in some such comedy as Eupolis’ Αἶγες.

[74] Cf. Nauck, _Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta_, p. 69, fr. 207:

    τράγος γένειον ἆρα πενθήσεις σύ γε.

The use of the nominative τράγος instead of a vocative is harsh, and
Shorey, _Classical Philology_, IV (1909), 433 ff., interprets the line
as an abbreviated comparison with ὡς omitted: “<If you kiss that fire>,
you’ll be the goat (in the proverb) who mourned his beard.” Of course,
this play must have been written considerably before 456 B.C., the year
of Aeschylus’ decease.

[75] Cf. _Oxyrhynchus Papyri_, IX (1912), 59:

                      νέος γὰρ ὢν ἀνὴρ
    πώγωνι θάλλων ὡς τράγος κνήκῳ χλιδᾷς.

[76] Cf. Euripides’ _Cyclops_, vss. 79 f.:

                δοῦλος ἀλαίνων
    σὺν τᾷδε τράγου χλαίνᾳ μελέᾳ.

Reisch thinks the goatskin characterized the chorus as shepherds; cf.
_op. cit._, p. 458, note; Ridgeway considers it “the meanest form of
apparel that could be worn by a slave”; cf. _Origin of Tragedy_, p. 87.

[77] Fig. 10 is taken from Höber, _Griechische Vasen_, Fig. 57 (1909).

[78] Cf. Reinach, _Repertoire des Vases Peints_, I, 193, or Baumeister,
_Denkmäler_, Supplementtafel, Fig. 7.

[79] Cf. _op. cit._, p. 459. The possibility of direct borrowing had
already been denied by Wernicke, _op. cit._, pp. 302-6. Wernicke’s
objections are not altogether convincing.

[80] Fig. 11 is taken from a photograph for which I am indebted to
Professor Heinrich Bulle. He was also kind enough to express the
following judgment with regard to the inscription: “Ich kann nicht mit
Ch. Fränkel, _Satyr- und Bakchennamen auf Vasenbildern_ (1912), S. 35,
der Lesung von Schulze (_Göttinger gel. Anz._ 1896, S. 254) ΣΙΒΥΡΤΑΣ
zustimmen; denn die Inschrift ist ja rechtslaüfig. Man kann übrigens auch
deutlich an dem Kleinerwerden der Buchstaben sehen, dass der Zeichner von
links nach rechts geschrieben hat. Ich glaube mit Urlichs, (_Verzeichniss
d. Antikensammlung d. Univ. Wurzburgs_, I, S. 50), dass es eine einfache
Verschreibung aus ΣΑΤΥΡΟΣ ist.” The _membrum virile_ has been omitted in
the reproduction.

[81] Cf. the contemporaneous sileni in connection with the “wagon-ship”
of Dionysus; see Fig. 65 and p. 121, below.

[82] Why “almost” is inserted here does not appear. Many Greek divinities
are mentioned on Ridgeway’s pages, but none is recognized as “totally
independent” of the cult of the dead.

[83] Cf. his _Dramas and Dramatic Dances_, etc., pp. 63, 337, 385, and
_passim_.

[84] Cf. Marrett, _Classical Review_, XXX (1916), 159.

[85] Cf. Zieliński, _Die Gliederung der altattischen Komödie_ (1885);
Humphreys, “The Agon of the Old Comedy,” _American Journal of Philology_,
VIII (1887), 179 ff.; Poppelreuter, _De Comoediae Atticae Primordiis_
(1893); A. Körte, “Archäologische Studien zur alten Komödie,” _Jahrbuch
d. archäologischen Instituts_, VIII (1893), 61 ff.; Loeschcke,
_Athenische Mittheilungen_, XIX (1894), 518, note; Bethe, _Prolegomena
zur Geschichte des Theaters im Alterthum_ (1896), pp. 48 ff.; Mazon,
_Essai sur la Composition des Comédies d’Aristophane_ (1904); Capps,
“The Introduction of Comedy into the City Dionysia,” _University of
Chicago Decennial Publications_, VI (1904), 266 ff., and in Columbia
University lectures on _Greek Literature_ (1912), pp. 124 ff.; Navarre,
“Les origines et la structure technique de la comédie ancienne,” _Revue
des Études anciennes_, XIII (1911), 245 ff.; White, _The Verse of Greek
Comedy_ (1912); Cornford, _The Origin of Attic Comedy_ (1914), reviewed
by Flickinger in _Classical Weekly_, VIII (1915), 221 ff.; and Ridgeway,
_The Dramas and Dramatic Dances of Non-European Races with an Appendix on
the Origin of Greek Comedy_ (1915), reviewed by Flickinger, _Classical
Weekly_, XI (1918), 109 f.

[86] I am indebted to Professor Capps for this translation; the word is
generally taken to mean “masks” here.

[87] Cf. Aristotle’s _Poetics_ 1449_a_37-_b_9.

[88] The phallus was a representation of the _membrum virile_, and such
ceremonies were primarily intended to secure fertility.

[89] Cf. Aristotle’s _Poetics_ 1449_a_9-13.

[90] The second is, of course, the personification of Increase; the
first is not so obvious. Some connect it with Demeter; it has also been
proposed to interpret it as the Cretan form of ζημία, “damage.” The one
would therefore represent the productive and the other the destructive
powers; cf. Macan’s edition _ad loc._ This would accord very neatly with
Cornford’s positive and negative charms.

[91] Cf. Jacoby, _Das Marmor Parium_, p. 13: ἀφ’ οὑ ἐν Ἀθ[ήν]αις
κωμω[ιδῶν χο]ρ[ὸς ἐτ]έθη, [στη]σάν[των πρώ]των Ἰκαριέων, εὑροντος
Σουσαρίωνος, καὶ ᾆθλον ἐτέθη πρῶτον ὶσχάδω[ν] ἄρσιχο[ς] καὶ οἴνου
με[τ]ρητής, [ἔτη .... The exact date is not determinable but is
limited to a period of twenty years by other entries just before and
after this one.

[92] Figs. 12 and 13 are taken, by permission of the Council of the
Hellenic Society, from the _Journal of Hellenic Studies_, II (1881), Pl.
XIV, A1 and B1; Fig. 14 from Poppelreuter, _op. cit._, p. 8; and Figs. 15
and 16 from Robinson, _Boston Museum Catalogue of Greek, Etruscan, and
Roman Vases_ (1893), p. 136.

[93] Cf. Capps, _University of Chicago Decennial Publications_, VI, 286,
and _American Journal of Philology_, XXVIII (1907), 186 f.

[94] The divisions of tragedy are discussed on pp. 192 f., below. Five
of the terms applied to the divisions of comedy appear also in tragedy,
viz., prologue, parodus, episode, stasimum, and exodus; several, if not
all, of the five seem to have originated in tragedy.

[95] From this second half of the parabasis comedy developed another
epirrhematic division to which Zieliński also gave the name of syzygy.
This was not exclusively choral, however, stood at no definite point in
the play, and differed in still other respects from the epirrhematic
syzygy of the parabasis. Three syzygies appear in Aristophanes’
_Acharnians_ and _Birds_, none in his _Lysistrata_, _Women in Council_,
and _Plutus_. Cf. White, _op. cit._, § 677. Since it is apparent that
such syzygies are not primary in origin, they have been ignored in the
foregoing discussion.

[96] Or at least reflect its influence; cf. the syzygies mentioned in the
last note.

[97] Cf. Cornford, _op. cit._, p. 46.

[98] Cf. White, “An Unrecognized Actor in Greek Comedy,” _Harvard
Studies_, XVII (1906), 124 f.

[99] Cf. Zieliński, _op. cit._, p. 190.

[100] Published by Usener in _Rheinisches Museum f. Philologie_, XXVIII
(1873), 418.

[101] Cf. Aristophanes’ _Clouds_, vss. 537 ff. (Rogers’ translation). The
original of “filthy symbols” is σκύτινον καθειμένον. It has therefore
been suggested, especially since there seems to be an allusion to a
phallus even in the _Clouds_ (vs. 734), that Aristophanes is not to be
understood as discontinuing the use of the phallus altogether in this
play, but merely as abandoning the φαλλος καθειμένος in favor of the less
indecent φαλλὸς ἀναδεδεμένος. Both types are seen in Fig. 17.

[102] Figs. 17-19 are taken from Körte, _op. cit._, p. 69 (Fig. 1), p.
78 (Fig. 3), and p. 80 (Fig. 5), respectively. In Fig. 17 there are only
three actors; the end figures are flute-players. Körte believes this
scene to be taken from Middle Comedy. In Fig. 19 the phallus has been
omitted.

[103] Figs. 20 and 21 are taken from Körte, _op. cit._, p. 91 (Fig. 8),
and Baumeister’s _Denkmäler_, Fig. 2099, respectively. The phallus has
been omitted from some of the actors.

[104] Cf. Aristotle’s _Poetics_ 1448_a_31 f.

[105] Those who admit this claim rest under the necessity of placing the
introduction of actors at this early date. This would mean that comedy
had actors before tragedy did! On the other hand, the reader needs to
be warned that I place the introduction of comic actors later than most
writers.

[106] Cf. Aristophanes’ _Wasps_, vs. 57, and Kock, _Comicorum Graecorum
Fragmenta_, I, 9 f., fr. 2 (Ecphantides), and I, 323, fr. 244 (Eupolis).

[107] Von Wilamowitz’ skepticism with regard to Megarian comedy, however,
has not gained many converts; cf. “Die megarische Komödie,” _Hermes_, IX
(1875), 319 ff.

[108] Cf. Navarre, _op. cit._, p. 268. The same fact is brought out more
graphically in the lithographic table at the close of Zieliński’s book.

[109] The episodes referred to in this sentence are more properly termed
“mediating scenes” in contradistinction to the true episodes (5) which
follow the parabasis (cf. White, _The Verse of Greek Comedy_, §§ 679 f.).
Twenty-six connecting links of this sort occur in Aristophanes, twenty
of them just before an agon or parabasis. Syzygies are also employed to
extend the length of the play, especially in the first half (cf. p. 41,
n. 1, above).

[110] Cf. Aristotle’s _Poetics_ 1448_a_32-4.

[111] Cf. Aristophanes’ _Frogs_, vss. 416-30, Rogers’ translation. The
original is more vulgar than would be tolerable in an English translation.

[112] Cf. Kaibel, _Comicorum Graecorum Fragmenta_, p. 18.

[113] Some would interpret this passage as meaning that Cratinus was
the first to observe the aesthetic law that not more than three persons
should participate in the same conversation (cf. Rees, _The So-called
Rule of Three Actors in the Classical Greek Drama_, p. 9, n. 1). When
the only speakers were the individual choreutae, who were twenty-four
in number, such a restriction must have been unheard of. On the other
hand, if it should prove true that Megarian actors were brought in
before the time of Cratinus, then we must suppose that their number was
at first in excess of three and was reduced to three by him. Of course,
the use of but three actors in the tragedy and comedy of this period
would automatically result in not more than three persons participating
in a conversation and so in the observance of the aesthetic law. This
statement, however, is subject to the qualification that the chorus
leaders continued to have speaking parts both in comedy (see p. 44,
above), and in tragedy (cf. pp. 164 f. and 169, below), and that a fourth
actor was occasionally employed (cf. pp. 171 and 182, below). In any case
I am of the opinion that conscious formulation of the aesthetic law was
not made until Hellenistic times (see pp. 187 f., below).

[114] Cf. Aristophanes’ _Knights_, vss. 522 f., Rogers’ translation.

[115] Cf. “The Introduction of Comedy into the City Dionysia,”
_University of Chicago Decennial Publications_, VI, 266 ff.

[116] Cf. Columbia University Lectures on _Greek Literature_, p. 130.

[117] Cf. Cornford, _op. cit._, pp. 179 and 193, n. 1; see p. 48, above.

[118] It is unfortunate that there is at present no satisfactory book
dealing with the Greek theater on the structural side. English readers
are practically restricted to Haigh’s _The Attic Theatre_, revised by
Pickard-Cambridge in 1907, which devotes nearly one hundred pages to a
summary and criticism of the different views. But this work has already
been off the press for a decade and on the main issue, viz., as to
whether the Greek theater of the classical period was provided with a
raised stage for actors, makes too many concessions to the traditional
view. For German readers, on the other hand, the situation is not a
great deal better. Dörpfeld’s book has been before the public for over
twenty years, and in the interim his opinions have necessarily changed on
many points. He has promised a thoroughly revised second edition, which
is demanded also by the excavation of additional theaters and by the
publication of numerous special articles. But it is hardly likely that
this promise will ever be redeemed. The only comfort is to be derived
from the fact that, as works of major importance have appeared, Dörpfeld
has promptly published critiques which have often been of such length as
to furnish convenient restatements of his views. These more recent works
in German, however, have attempted merely to force a modification of
certain details in Dörpfeld’s position; they are in no wise calculated to
serve as independent presentations of the whole matter or as a means of
orientation for the uninitiated.

From the extensive bibliographical material which is available it
is manifestly impossible to cite more than a fraction here. The
outstanding books are Dörpfeld-Reisch, _Das griechische Theater_
(1896), defended against reviewers and partially modified in “Das
griechische Theater Vitruvs,” _Athenische Mittheilungen_, XXII (1897),
439 ff., and XXIII (1898), 326 ff.; Puchstein, _Die griechische Bühne_
(1901), answered by Dörpfeld in _Athenische Mittheilungen_, XXVIII
(1903), 383 ff.; and Fiechter, _Die baugeschichtliche Entwicklung des
antiken Theaters_ (1914), summarized by its author and criticized by
Dörpfeld in _Jahrbuch d. arch. Instituts, Anzeiger_, XXX (1915), 93
ff. and 96 ff., respectively. Other important publications are von
Wilamowitz-Möllendorff, “Die Bühne des Aischylos,” _Hermes_, XXI (1886),
597 ff.; Todt, “Noch Einmal die Bühne des Aeschylos,” _Philologus_,
XLVIII (1889), 505 ff.; Capps, “Vitruvius and the Greek Stage,”
_University of Chicago Studies in Classical Philology_, I (1893), 3 ff.;
Bethe, _Prolegomena zur Geschichte des Theaters im Alterthum_ (1896), and
“Die hellenistischen Bühnen und ihre Decorationen,” _Jahrbuch d. arch.
Instituts_, XV (1900), 59 ff. (answered by Dörpfeld in “Die vermeintliche
Bühne des hellenistischen Theaters,” _ibid._, XVI [1901], 22 ff.);
Petersen, “Nachlese in Athen: Das Theater des Dionysos,” _ibid._, XXIII
(1908), 33 ff.; and Versakis, “Das Skenengebäude d. Dionysos-Theaters,”
_ibid._, XXIV (1909), 194 ff., answered by Dörpfeld, _ibid._, pp. 224 ff.
Still other titles will be cited as they are needed in the discussion.
See also p. 221, below. For reports on the excavations of various
theaters the reader should consult the bibliographical references given
by Dörpfeld-Reisch and Fiechter in their footnotes.

[119] For a slight variability in the application of the word orchestra
see p. 83 and nn. 1 and 2, below; see also p. 72, n. 3.

[120] Fig. 22 is specially drawn and does not exactly reproduce any
single theatrical structure. Fig. 23 is taken, simplified and slightly
altered, from Dörpfeld-Reisch, _Das griechische Theater_, Pl. VIII (_a_).

[121] Dörpfeld claims that the name was given because the speakers
stood there in addressing the public assemblies and that the same place
was known as the _theologium_ when used by divinities; cf. _Athenische
Mittheilungen_, XXIII (1898), 348 f., and XXVIII (1903), 395, and
_Jahrbuch d. arch. Instituts, Anzeiger_, XXX (1915), 98. Reisch thought
that logium was the name of some kind of special structure in the
orchestra; cf. _Das griechische Theater_, p. 302. Inscriptions prove the
presence of a logium in the Delian theater in 279 B.C. (εἰς τὸ λογεῖον
τῆς σκηνῆς) and 180 B.C. (τὴν κατασκευὴν τῶν πινάκων τῶν ἐπὶ τὸ λογεῖον);
cf. Homolle, _Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique_, XVIII (1894), 162
and 165, and Robinson, _American Journal of Philology_, XXV (1904), 191;
but they do not make its nature clear. Personally I am of the opinion
that at Athens speakers always stood in the orchestra to address the
public assemblies until the building of the Nero stage about 67 A.D.; cf.
Flickinger, _Plutarch as a Source of Information on the Greek Theater_
(1904), p. 55, and see p. 102, below. My present view, therefore, is that
logium suffered a change of meaning, being first applied to the top of
the proscenium and being used for elevated action of various kinds, as
explained in the text, and afterward being applied to the stage as the
place of actors and public speakers. In either case, it referred to the
same general part of the theater, viz., an elevated platform in front of
the scene-building. But the original application of this term is one of
the most perplexing problems in connection with scenic antiquities, and
it is earnestly to be hoped that additional evidence may be brought to
light which will unmistakably reveal its earlier history. The word does
not appear in literature until Roman times (thrice in Plutarch), but then
indisputably means “stage.” See next paragraph in text.

[122] “Theater” (θέατρον) is derived from θεᾶσθαι, to “see,” and was
originally applied to the space occupied by the spectators. The wider
meaning was a natural but later development. It is customary to employ
the Latin term _cavea_ (“an excavated place”) to express the narrower
meaning.

[123] Fig. 24 is taken from Wilberg’s drawing, simplified by the omission
of numerous details, in _Forschungen in Ephesos_, II, Fig. 96. I am
responsible for the addition of the names.

[124] That this platform (or rather its equivalent in purely Roman
theaters) might be conventionally regarded as the roof of the
scene-building appears from Seneca _Medea_, vs. 973 (Medea speaking):
“excelsa nostrae tecta conscendam domus,” and vs. 995 (Jason speaking):
“en ipsa tecti parte praecipiti imminet.”

[125] The word occurs only in Pollux, _Onomasticon_, IV, § 127.

[126] Dörpfeld applies the term to the first story of the purely Greek
(stageless) theater (see p. 100, below).

[127] For a discussion of the technical terms from the traditional
standpoint, cf. A. Müller, “Untersuchungen zu den Bühnenalterthümern,”
_Philologus_, Supplementband, VII (1899), 3 ff. Many of the terms,
notably σκηνή, have numerous secondary meanings; cf. Flickinger,
_Plutarch as a Source of Information on the Greek Theater_, pp. 23
ff., and Scherling, _De Vocis_ Σκηνή, _Quantum ad Theatrum Graecum
Pertinet, Significatione et Usu_ (1906). Thymele is sometimes extended
in application so as to denote the whole orchestra; hence θυμελικός was
sometimes applied to purely orchestral performers (or their performances)
in contradistinction to those who came into more immediate relationship
with the scene-building and who were in consequence known as σκηνικοί
(see pp. 96 f., below).

[128] Fig. 25 is taken from a photograph by Professor D. M. Robinson.

[129] Figs. 26 f. are taken from photographs by Dr. A. S. Cooley; Fig. 28
from one by Professor D. M. Robinson.

[130] Fig. 1 is taken from a photograph furnished by Professor D. M.
Robinson.

[131] Fig. 29 is specially drawn and is based upon several different
drawings.

[132] Fig. 30 is taken from Wieseler’s _Theatergebäude und Denkmäler
d. Bühnenwesens bei den Griechern und Römern_, Pl. I, Fig. 1, and is
magnified two diameters as compared with the original coin. See also the
medallion on the outside cover, which is reproduced from the _British
Museum Catalogue of Greek Coins, Attica, Megaris, Aegina_, Pl. XIX, Fig.
8. Fig. 31 is from a photograph by Dr. A. S. Cooley.

[133] Fig. 32 is redrawn, with slight alterations, from Dörpfeld-Reisch,
_Das griechische Theater_, Pl. II. The age of the different remains is
indicated in colors in _ibid._, Pl. I.

[134] Cf. Photius, _s.v._ ἴκρια. τὰ ἐν τῇ ἀγορᾷ, ἀφ’ ὤν ἐθεῶντο τοὺς
Διονυσιακοὺς αγῶνας πρὶν ἤ κατασκευασθῆναι τὸ ἐν Διονύσου θέατρον;
likewise _s.v._ ληναῖον and ὀρχήστρα.

[135] Cf. Suidas, _s.v._ Πρατίνας ... ἀντηγωνίζετο δὲ Αὶσχύλῳ τε καὶ
Χοιρίλῳ, ἐπὶ τῆς ἑβδομηκοστῆς Ὀλυμπιάδος, ... ἐπιδεικνυμένου δὲ τούτου
συνέβη τὰ ἴκρια, ἐφ’ ὧν ἑστήκεσαν οἱ θεαταί πεσεῖν. καὶ ἐκ τούτου θέατρον
ᾠκοδομήθη Ἀθηναίοις. It is also possible that the orchestra in the
precinct of Dionysus is somewhat earlier than is maintained in the text,
possibly going back to the vicinity of 534 B.C., and that it was the
earlier and less substantial seats near it which collapsed _ca._ 499 B.C.

[136] Figs. 33 f. are taken from photographs by Dr. A. S. Cooley. The
position of these stones is marked by B and C respectively in Fig. 32.
Another arc of the same orchestral circle is indicated by a cutting in
the native rock near the east parodus, A in Fig. 32.

[137] Fig. 32_a_ is taken from F. Noack, Σκηνὴ Τραγική, _eine Studie über
die scenischen Anlage auf der Orchestra des Aischylos und der anderen
Tragiker_ (1915), p. 3.

[138] Possibly the seats did not go back of this road at this period;
they certainly did in the fourth century (Fig. 32).

[139] Cf. Dignan, _The Idle Actor in Aeschylus_ (1905), p. 13, n. 14.

[140] Or in the south half of the old orchestra in case the orchestra was
moved fifty feet nearer the Acropolis at this time (see p. 68, below).

[141] Cf. Aristotle’s _Poetics_ 1449_a_18, and Vitruvius, _De
Architectura_, VII, praefatio, § 11.

[142] Dörpfeld, following Reisch, is willing to accept a date as early as
421-415 B.C., cf. _Das griechische Theater_, pp. 21 f.

[143] Fig. 35 is taken from Fiechter, _op. cit._, Fig. 14.

[144] So Furtwängler, “Zum Dionysostheater in Athen,”
_Sitzungsberichte d. bayer. Akademie der Wissenschaften zu München,
philosophisch-philologische u. historische Classe_, 1901, p. 411;
Puchstein, _op. cit._, pp. 137 ff.; E. A. Gardner, _Ancient Athens_,
pp. 435 f. and 448; and Fiechter, _op. cit._, p. 11. Dörpfeld, on the
contrary, would attribute these foundations to the Lycurgus theater in
the next century; cf. _Das griechische Theater_, pp. 59 ff.

[145] Cf. Dörpfeld, “Das griechische Theater zu Pergamon,” _Athenische
Mittheilungen_, XXXII (1907), 231; but differently in _Das griechische
Theater_, pp. 61 ff.

[146] As in the Hellenistic theater (Fig. 38).

[147] Except possibly at Thoricus (see p. 103, below).

[148] Cf. pseudo-Plutarch _X Oratorum Vitae_, 841D and 852C.

[149] Cf. Dörpfeld, “Das Theater von Ephesos,” _Jahrbuch d. arch.
Instituts, Anzeiger_, XXVIII (1913), 38.

[150] Dörpfeld, “Das Theater von Ephesos,” Jahrbuch d. arch. Instituts,
Anzeiger, XXVIII (1913), 40 f.

[151] Fig. 38 is taken from Dörpfeld-Reisch, _Das griechische Theater_,
Fig. 26.

[152] Cf. _ibid._, p. 63. This shift has been disputed by many but is
defended by Fiechter, _op. cit._, pp. 9 ff.

[153] Cf. Dörpfeld, _Das griechische Theater_, p. 89.

[154] Cf. ibid., p. 89; _Athenische Mittheilungen_, XXII (1897), 459;
XXIII (1898), 330 and 347; and XXVIII (1903), 414. For the Graeco-Roman
stage see pp. 80 ff. and 110 f., below.

[155] Fig. 39 is from a photograph taken by Dr. Lewis L. Forman and
furnished by Dr. A. S. Cooley. Owing to its change of function, in Roman
times the orchestra was sometimes known as the κονίστρα (= the Latin
_arena_); owing to its change of shape, it was sometimes called σῖγμα
from its resemblance to the semicircular form of the Greek letter Ϲ.

[156] Fig. 40 is taken from Dörpfeld-Reisch, _Das griechische Theater_,
Fig. 32.

[157] Fig. 41 is from a photograph belonging to Northwestern University;
the stone steps at the left and another slab at the right do not appear
in this view (see Fig. 39). For the latest interpretation and drawing of
the frieze, cf. Cook, _Zeus_, I, 708 ff., and the pocket at end of his
volume.

[158] Fig. 42 is taken from _Athenische Mittheilungen_, XXII (1897), 452.

[159] Vitruvius, of course, speaks of Roman feet, which are equal to
11.65 English inches.

[160] Fig. 43 is taken from _Athenische Mittheilungen_, XXII (1897),
453. This drawing differs somewhat from that given in _Das griechische
Theater_, Fig. 66, which was prepared while Dörpfeld was still of the
opinion that Vitruvius was describing the Hellenistic theater and had
misapprehended the function of its proscenium (see p. 81, below). He now
includes the proscenium at the back of the stage in the _scaenae frons_.

[161] Whatever _scaena_ may mean in Latin, _in scaena_ in this context is
at least equivalent to “on the stage.”

[162] Cf. p. 61, n. 2, above and pp. 96 f., below.

[163] Cf. Pollux _Onomasticon_ iv, § 123: καὶ σκηνὴ μὲν ὑποκριτῶν ἴδιον,
ἡ δὲ ὀρχήστρα τοῦ χοροῦ.

[164] Cf. _ibid._, iv, § 127: εἰσελθόντες δὲ κατὰ τὴν ὀρχήστραν ἐπὶ τὴν
σκηνὴν ἀναβαίνουσι διὰ κλιμάκων.

[165] Dörpfeld’s views were first given general publicity in the Appendix
to Müller’s _Lehrbuch der griechischen Bühnenalterthümern_ (1886), pp.
415 f., but were not published in full until 1896. They have suffered
modification in several material points since then.

[166] Cf. _De Architectura_ v. 8, 2: “ita his praescriptionibus qui
voluerit uti, emendatas efficiet theatrorum perfectiones.”

[167] This is now Dörpfeld’s name for what he at first called the Asia
Minor type; cf. _Athenische Mittheilungen_, XXVIII (1903), 389 and 414.
The latter term was unfortunate as suggesting a geographical restriction
which had no basis in fact.

[168] Cf. Plutarch _Life of Pompey_, c. xlii.

[169] It is significant that Vitruvius seems to have depended upon
Asia Minor rather than the Greek mainland for his knowledge of Greek
architecture; cf. Noack, “Das Proscenion in der Theaterfrage,”
_Philologus_, LVIII (1899), 16 ff.

[170] Cf. _Athenische Mittheilungen_, XXII (1897), 439 ff.

[171] Cf. _Athenische Mittheilungen_, XXII (1897), 443, 449 f., and 454,
and Fiechter, _op. cit._, pp. 59 ff.

[172] It is easy to see why he should do so. When Hellenistic theaters
were made over into Graeco-Roman structures, several rows of seats were
often removed, resulting in a drop of several feet between the auditorium
and the orchestra (see p. 116, below, and Fig. 24). So distinct a line of
demarcation could scarcely be ignored in favor of any less clearly marked
boundary. In fact, the orchestra in the narrowest sense (see next note)
was sometimes not indicated at all in the Graeco-Roman theaters.

[173] The word is applied also to a still more restricted space which in
some Graeco-Roman and most earlier theaters is marked off by a circular
boundary.

[174] Of course, Dörpfeld and Fiechter cite only a fraction of the
instances available (others are given in Puchstein’s table, _op. cit._,
p. 7), but it is to be inferred that they bring forward those which
are most favorable to their own position and most difficult for their
opponents to explain. For example, the proscenium of the Hellenistic
theater in Athens was about thirteen feet (English) high, which exceeds
Vitruvius’ maximum. Consequently Fiechter says nothing about it. In
general, the Hellenistic proscenia were higher than the Graeco-Roman
stages.

[175] Doubtless for the reason that in the pitlike Graeco-Roman orchestra
the smaller circle really was not needed and often was not indicated (see
p. 83, n. 1).

[176] Cf. Dörpfeld, _Athenische Mittheilungen_, XXVIII (1903), 403 and
405.

[177] Cf. Bethe, _Jahrbuch d. arch. Instituts_, XV (1900), 71 f., and
Dörpfeld, _ibid._, XVI (1901), 35 f.

[178] Cf. _Athenische Mittheilungen_, XXVIII (1903), 424 ff. The
arguments advanced in this article are reaffirmed as still valid in
_Jahrbuch d. arch. Instituts, Anzeiger_, XXX (1915), 99 ff.

[179] Cf. _Hermes_, XXI (1886), 603.

[180] Cf. “The Greek Stage According to the Extant Dramas,” _Transactions
of the American Philological Association_, XXII (1891), 5 ff. Similar
results were obtained by White, “The ‘Stage’ in Aristophanes,” _Harvard
Studies_, II (1891), 159 ff.

[181] Fig. 45 is from a photograph belonging to the University of
Chicago. The inscription beneath the seat reads: “Of the priest of
Dionysus Eleuthereus.”

[182] Cf. scholium on vs. 299 of the _Frogs_: ἀποροῦσι δέ τινες πῶς
ἀπὸ τοῦ λογείου περιελθὼν καὶ κρυφθεὶς ὄπισθεν τοῦ ἱερέως τοῦτο λέγει.
φαίνονται δὲ οὐκ εἶναι ἐπὶ τοῦ λογείου ἀλλ’ ἐπὶ τῆς ὀρχήστρας.

[183] Cf. Graeber, _De Poetarum Atticorum Arte Scaenica_ (1911), p. 4.

[184] Cf. Rees, “The Function of the Πρόθυρον in the Production of
Greek Plays,” _Classical Philology_, X (1915), 128 and n. 2. For other
interpretations consistent with a stageless theater, cf. White, _Harvard
Studies_, II (1891), 164 ff., and Capps, _Transactions of the American
Philological Association_, XXII (1891), 64 ff. A convenient summary from
the pro-stage point of view may be found in Haigh, _The Attic Theatre³_,
pp. 166 f.

[185] Cf. Aristotle’s _Poetics_ 1456_a_29, and see pp. 144 ff., below.

[186] Cf. White, _op. cit._, p. 167, note, and Robert, “Zur
Theaterfrage,” _Hermes_, XXXII (1897), 447.

[187] See pp. 99, 116 f., 134 f., and 144-49, below. Cf. Capps, “The
Chorus in the Later Greek Drama,” _American Journal of Archaeology_, X
(1895), 287 ff.; Körte, “Das Fortleben des Chors im griechischen Drama,”
_N. Jahrbücher f. kl. Altertum_, V (1900), 81 ff.; Flickinger, “ΧΟΡΟΥ in
Terence’s _Heauton_ and Agathon’s ΕΜΒΟΛΙΜΑ,” _Classical Philology_, VII
(1912), 24 ff.; and Duckett, _Studies in Ennius_ (1915), pp. 53 ff.

[188] See p. 147, below, and cf. Graf, _Szenische Untersuchungen zu
Menander_ (1914), p. 14. The same motive appears also in the fifth
century, in Euripides’ _Phoenician Maids_, vss. 192 ff., and _Phaethon_
(Nauck, _Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta_, p. 602, fr. 773, vss. 10 ff.);
cf. Fraenkel, _De Media et Nova Comoedia_ (1912), p. 71, and Harms, _De
Introitu Personarum in Euripidis et Novae Comoediae Fabulis_ (1914), p.
60; see p. 282, below.

[189] The former phrase occurs in Aristotle’s _Poetics_ 1453_a_27,
1455_a_28, 1459_b_25, and 1460_a_15, and Demosthenes xix, p. 449, § 337;
the latter in Aristotle’s (?) _Poetics_ 1452_b_18 and 25, Aristotle’s
_Problems_ 918_b_26, 920_a_9, and 922_b_17, and Demosthenes xviii, p.
288, § 180. Cf. Richards, _Classical Review_, V (1891), 97, and XVIII
(1904), 179, and Flickinger, “The Meaning of ἐπὶ τῆς σκηνῆς in Writers
of the Fourth Century,” _University of Chicago Decennial Publications_,
VI (1902), 11 ff., and “Scaenica,” _Transactions of the American
Philological Association_, XL (1909), 109 ff.

[190] Cf. Athenaeus, p. 211 B.

[191] Cf. Diodorus Siculus xi. 10, Plutarch _Life of Brutus_, c. xlv, and
_Life of Demetrius_, c. xxxii, and Lucian (?), _Lucius sive Asinus_, § 47.

[192] Cf. _American Journal of Philology_, XVIII (1897), 120.

[193] Cf. Aristotle’s _Poetics_ 1460_a_11-17.

[194] Cf. Aristotle (?) _Poetics_ 1452_b_24 f.

[195] Cf. Clemens Alexandrinus (Potter), p. 688, and Vitruvius viii,
praefatio § 1. Incidentally it may be remarked that Euripides’
philosophizing and personal views are found in his choral odes no less
than in the histrionic parts of his plays (see p. 140, below).

[196] Cf. Frei, _De Certaminibus Thymelicis_ (1900), pp. 14 and 15. The
dissertation provoked a controversy between Bethe and Dörpfeld; cf.
Bethe, “Thymeliker und Skeniker,” _Hermes_, XXXVI (1901), 597 ff., and
Dörpfeld, “Thymele und Skene,” _ibid._, XXXVII (1902), 249 ff. and 483 ff.

[197] Cf. _Athenische Mittheilungen_, XXVIII (1903), 420 f.

[198] The Greek text has already been quoted on p. 78, nn. 1 and 2.

[199] Cf. _Clouds_, vss. 1486 ff. A somewhat similar use of ladders is
mentioned in Euripides’ _Bacchanals_, vss. 1212 ff.

[200] Cf. Pollux iv. 124: τὸ δὲ ὑποσκήνιον κίοσι καὶ ἀγαλματίοις
κεκόσμηται πρὸς τὸ θέατρον τετραμμένοις, ὑπὸ τὸ λογεῖον κείμενον.

[201] Also, the front wall of this room, just as σκηνή is not only the
scene-building as a whole but also its front wall; cf. Flickinger,
_Plutarch as a Source of Information on the Greek Theater_, pp. 43 f.

[202] Cf. _Athenische Mittheilungen_, XXVIII (1903), 418 ff.

[203] Robert would emend the text so that the statement would explain the
proscenium instead of the hyposcenium; cf. _Hermes_, XXXII (1897), 448.
In that case ὑπό must mean “behind,” a possible meaning, and Pollux would
be speaking of the proscenium in a theater with a stage. Pollux includes
the proscenium in his catalogue of theater parts (see pp. 97 f., above),
but does not define it.

[204] Cf. Plutarch _Life of Lycurgus_, c. vi, and Flickinger, _Plutarch
as a Source of Information on the Greek Theater_ (1904), p. 52.

[205] Cf. Plutarch _Life of Demetrius_, c. xxxiv.

[206] Cf. Plutarch _Praecepta Gerendae Reipublicae_ 823B, and see p. 59,
n. 1, above.

[207] Cf. Plutarch’s _Life of Aratus_, c. xxiii: ἐπιστήσας δὲ ταῖς
παρόδοις τοὺς Ἀχαιοὺς αὐτὸς ἀπὸ τῆς σκηνῆς εἰς τὸ μέσον προῆλθε. For
other interpretations, cf. Robert, _Hermes_, XXXII (1897), 448 ff.;
Müller, _Philologus_, Supplementband, VII (1899), 52 f. and 90 f.;
Dörpfeld, _Athenische Mittheilungen_, XXVIII (1903), 421 ff., etc.

[208] A convenient chronological table of the extant theaters is given by
Fiechter, _op. cit._, pp. 24-27.

[209] Fig. 46 is taken from Dörpfeld-Reisch, _Das griechische Theater_,
Fig. 50. Figs. 47-52 are from photographs by Dr. A. S. Cooley.

[210] Figs. 53-54 are redrawn from Dörpfeld-Reisch, _Das griechische
Theater_, Figs. 44-45, respectively; Fig. 55 is from a photograph by Dr.
A. S. Cooley.

[211] Cf. Pollux _Onomasticon_ iv, § 132: αἱ Χαρώνιοι κλίμακες.

[212] Cf. Fossum in _American Journal of Archaeology_, II (1898), 187 ff.
and Pl. IV; see p. 288, n. 2, below.

[213] A convenient series of excerpts from the Delian inscriptions is
given by Haigh, _The Attic Theatre³_, pp. 379 ff.

[214] Fig. 56 is taken from Dörpfeld-Reisch, _Das griechische Theater_,
Fig. 35; and Fig. 57 is from a photograph of the German Archaeological
Institute at Athens.

[215] ... ἀγω] νοθετήσας τὸ προσκήνιον καὶ τοὺς πίν[ακας, and ... ἱερεὺ]ς
γενόμενος ⸺ τὴν σκηνὴν καὶ τὰ θυρώμ[ατα τῷ Ἀμ]φιαράῳ. For the functions
of an agonothete, see pp. 271 f., below. For the θυρώματα, cf. Dörpfeld
in _Athenische Mittheilungen_, XXVIII (1903), 394, and _Jahrbuch d.
arch. Instituts, Anzeiger_, XXX (1915), 102; wrongly interpreted in _Das
griechische Theater_, p. 109.

[216] Fig. 58 is taken from _Athenische Mittheilungen_, XXII (1897), Pl.
X.

[217] Cf. Dörpfeld in _Athenische Mittheilungen_, XXII (1897), 458, and
XXVIII (1903), 429.

[218] Fig. 59 is taken from Niemann’s drawing in _Forschungen in
Ephesos_, II, Pl. VIII; and Figs. 60-62 are from drawings by Wilberg,
_ibid._, Figs. 5, 56, and 57, respectively. Cf. also Dörpfeld, “Das
Theater von Ephesos,” _Jahrbuch d. arch. Instituts, Anzeiger_, XXVIII
(1913), 37 ff.

[219] Fig. 63 is redrawn from _Athenische Mittheilungen_, XXIII (1898),
Pl. XI; the cross-hatched walls belong to the Graeco-Roman rebuilding.
Fig. 64 is from a photograph taken by Professor C. P. Bill and furnished
by Dr. A. S. Cooley.

[220] Cf. Dörpfeld, in _Athenische Mittheilungen_, XXII (1897), 456 ff.

[221] Cf. Dörpfeld, _ibid._, XXII (1897), 458 f.; XXIII (1898), 337; and
XXVIII (1903), 426.

[222] Cf. Duckett, _Studies in Ennius_ (1915), p. 70.

[223] Cf. the works mentioned on pp. xvii and xx f., above. There is no
special literature on this subject.

[224] Cf. chaps. iv and ix and the bibliographies on pp. 196 and 318,
below.

[225] A drachma contained six obols and was worth about eighteen cents
without making allowance for the greater purchase value of money in
antiquity.

[226] Cf. Haigh, _The Attic Theatre_ (3d ed. by Pickard-Cambridge, 1907),
p. 1.

[227] The affirmative side of the question is presented by Haigh, _op.
cit._, pp. 324 ff.; the negative by Rogers, Introduction to Aristophanes’
_Women in Council_ (1902), pp. xxix ff.

[228] Cf. Frickenhaus, “Der Schiffskarren des Dionysos in Athen,”
_Jahrbuch d. arch. Instituts_, XXVII (1912), 61 ff. Fig. 65 originally
appeared as Beilage I, Fig. 3, in connection with this article. It is
taken from a drawing by Signor G. Gatti, a photograph of which was
furnished me through the courtesy of Professor Ghisardini, Director of
the Museo Civico at Bologna.

[229] Cf. Plautus’ _The Casket_, vss. 89 f.:

                per Dionysia
    mater pompam me spectatum duxit,

and vss. 156 ff.:

    fuere Sicyoni iam diu Dionysia.
    mercator venit huc ad ludos Lemnius,
    isque hic compressit virginem, adulescentulus,
    <vi>, vinulentus, multa nocte, in via.

For the differences between Old Comedy, Middle Comedy, and New Comedy,
see p. 39, above.

[230] Cf. his Preface to _Bajazet_.

[231] Cf. Ribbeck, _Rheinisches Museum_, XXX (1875), 145.

[232] Cf. Aristotle’s _Poetics_ 1456_a_6 and 1453_a_19.

[233] Cf. _ibid._, 1451_b_25.

[234] Cf. _Oxyrhynchus Papyri_, IX (1912), 30 ff.

[235] For still further developments in the history of satyric drama see
pp. 198 f., below.

[236] Cf. Kock, _Comicorum Atticorum Fragmenta_, II, 90, fr. 191.

[237] Cf. Freytag’s _Technique of the Drama²_, translated by MacEwan, p.
75, and Hense, _Die Modificirung der Maske in der griechischen Tragödie²_
(1905), pp. 2 f.

[238] Cf. Lounsbury, _Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist_ (1902), p. 175
(italics mine).

[239] Cf. _ibid._, p. 204. The passages referred to are Sophocles’
_Philoctetes_, vss. 38 f., 649 f., and 696-99, and _Antigone_, vss.
1016-22 and 1080-83. The expressions employed in the Greek could be
seriously objected to only by the most fastidious.

[240] Cf. Haigh, _The Attic Theatre³_, p. 2.

[241] Cf. argument, _Demosthenes’ Against Midias_, §§ 2 f.

[242] In addition to the works mentioned on pp. xvii and xx f., above,
cf. Decharme, _Euripides and the Spirit of His Dramas_ (1892), translated
by Loeb (1906); Capps “The Chorus in the Later Greek Drama,” _American
Journal of Archaeology_, X (1895), 287 ff.; Helmreich, _Der Chor bei
Sophokles und Euripides_ (1905); A. Körte, “Das Fortleben des Chors im
gr. Drama,” _N. Jahrb. f. d. kl. Altertum_, V (1900), 81 ff.; Flickinger,
“ΧΟΡΟΥ in Terence’s _Heauton_, The Shifting of Choral Rôles in Menander,
and Agathon’s ἘΜΒΟΛΙΜΑ,” _Classical Philology_, VII (1912), 24 ff.;
Stephenson, _Some Aspects of the Dramatic Art of Aeschylus_ (1913);
Fries, _De Conexu Chori Personae cum Fabulae Actione_ (1913); and
Duckett, _Studies in Eunius_ (1915).

[243] Nevertheless, it has been ignored by certain recent writers on the
origin of tragedy, cf. _Classical Philology_, VIII (1913), 283.

[244] Whether the satyric chorus was increased at the same time is
unknown. In Fig. 4, which represents a satyric drama of about 400 B.C.,
not more than twelve choreutae are represented.

[245] For the differences between sileni and satyrs and for their
appearance on the stage, see pp. 24-32.

[246] Cf. the scholia to Sophocles’ _Ajax_, vs. 134, to Euripides’
_Phoenician Maids_, vs. 202, etc.

[247] _Conversations with Eckermann_, July 5, 1827 (Oxenford’s
translation).

[248] Cf. Graeber, _De Poetarum Atticorum Arte Scaenica_ (1911), pp. 56
ff.

[249] Cf. Flickinger, _op. cit._, pp. 28 ff.

[250] Cf. Aristotle’s _Poetics_, 1456_a_26 ff.

[251] Cf. _Philologus_, LXX (1911), 497 f.

[252] Cf. _Revue des Études anciennes_, XIII (1911), 273.

[253] In the Jernstedt fragment; cf. Capps, _Four Plays of Menander_, pp.
98 f.

[254] Cf. Kock, _Comicorum Atticorum Fragmenta_, II, 333 f., fr. 107.

[255] Cf. Verrall, _Euripides the Rationalist_, p. 219, note.

[256] Cf. Archer, _Play-making_, p. 142.

[257] Cf. _The Origin of Attic Comedy_, p. 107.

[258] Cf. _Zur Dramaturgie des Äschylus_ (1892), p. 135.

[259] Cf. Euripides’ _Helen_, vs. 184, and _Medea_, vss. 131 ff.

[260] Cf. Euripides’ _Hecabe_, vs. 105, and _Electra_, vss. 168 ff.

[261] Cf. Sophocles’ _Maidens of Trachis_, vs. 103, and _Ajax_, vs. 143,
Euripides’ _Hippolytus_, vss. 129 ff., etc.

[262] Cf. Sophocles’ _Oedipus the King_, vs. 144, and _Antigone_, vss.
164 f., Euripides’ _Trojan Women_, vss. 143-45, Aristophanes’ _Clouds_,
vs. 269, _Peace_, vss. 296 ff., _Birds_, vss. 310 f., and _Plutus_, vs.
255, etc.

[263] Cf. Verrall’s edition of Euripides’ _Ion_ (1890), p. lx.

[264] Cf. p. 89 of his edition (1896).

[265] Cf. John Dennis, _The Impartial Critick_ (1693).

[266] Cf. Tovey, _Letters of Thomas Gray_, II, 293 f.

[267] Cf. Dennis, _op. cit._

[268] _Four Plays of Euripides_ (1905), pp. 125-30.

[269] Cf. Murray, _Euripides and His Age_ (1913), p. 238.

[270] _Thucydides Mythistoricus_ (1907), p. 147 (italics mine).

[271] In addition to the works mentioned on pp. xvii and xx f., above,
cf. Detscheff, _De Tragoediarum Graecarum Conformatione Scaenica ac
Dramatica_ (1904); Rees, “The Meaning of Parachoregema,” _Classical
Philology_, II (1907), 387 ff.; _The So-called Rule of Three Actors in
the Classical Greek Drama_ (1908); “The Number of the Dramatic Company
in the Period of the Technitae,” _American Journal of Philology_, XXXI
(1910), 43 ff., and “The Three Actor Rule in Menander,” _Classical
Philology_, V (1910), 291 ff.; O’Connor, _Chapters in the History of
Actors and Acting in Ancient Greece_ (1908); Leo, _Der Monolog im Drama_
(1908), and _Plautinische Forschungen²_ (1912), pp. 226 ff.; Listmann,
_Die Technik des Dreigesprächs in der griechischen Tragödie_ (1910);
Kaffenberger, _Das Dreischauspielergesetz in der griechischen Tragödie_
(1911); Foster, _The Divisions in the Plays of Plautus and Terence_
(1913); Stephenson, _Some Aspects of the Dramatic Art of Aeschylus_
(1913); Graf, _Szensiche Untersuchungen zu Menander_ (1914); and Conrad,
_The Technique of Continuous Action in Roman Comedy_ (1915), reviewed by
Flickinger in _Classical Weekly_, X (1917), 147 ff.

Fig. 66 is taken from Baumeister’s _Denkmäler_, Fig. 1637. The apparent
height of the tragic actors is said to have been increased by means of
the ὄγκος projecting above the head and of thick-soled boots (κόθορνοι),
both represented in Fig. 66. The employment of such paraphernalia rests
upon late evidence, however, and has been disputed for fifth-century
tragedy; cf. for example Smith, “The Use of the High-soled Shoe or
Buskin in Greek Tragedy of the Fifth or Fourth Centuries B.C.,” _Harvard
Studies_, XVI (1905), 123 ff. For the costumes of comic actors, see pp.
46 f., above.

[272] Cf. Capps, “The Introduction of Comedy into the City Dionysia,”
_University of Chicago Decennial Publications_, VI, 269, n. 37.

[273] Cf. Tanner, _Transactions of American Philological Association_,
XLVI (1915), 185-87. For Sophocles, cf. Jebb’s _Electra_, p. lvii.

[274] Cf. Rees, _Classical Philology_, V (1910), 291 ff., and
Kaffenberger, _op. cit._, p. 10.

[275] Cf. C. F. Hermann, _De Distributione Personarum inter Histriones in
Tragoediis Graecis_ (1840), pp. 32-34.

[276] Cf. Prescott, “Three Puer-Scenes in Plautus and the Distribution of
Rôles,” _Harvard Studies_, XXI (1910), 44. It ought to be added that some
authorities deny that Prometheus was represented by a dummy, believing
that this tragedy belonged to the three-actor period (see further, p.
228, below).

[277] Cf. Lewes, _Life of Goethe²_, p. 424.

[278] Cf. _Four Plays of Euripides_ (1905), pp. 1 ff.

[279] Cf. the scholium on vs. 93.

[280] Cf. Devrient, _Das Kind auf der antiken Bühne_ (1904).

[281] Cf. _Oxyrhynchus Papyri_, VI (1908), 69.

[282] Cf. Rees, _American Journal of Philology_, XXXI (1910), 43 ff.

[283] Cf. Horace _Ars Poetica_, vs. 192; see also p. 53, n. 1, above.

[284] Cf. Leo, _Rheinisches Museum für Philologie_, LII (1897), 513.

[285] Cf. Seneca’s _Agamemnon_, vss. 981 ff.

[286] Cf. Lounsbury, _Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist_, pp. 111 f.

[287] Cf. U. von Wilamowitz-Möllendorff, _Herakles²_, I, 119, note, and
Euripides _Alcestis_, vss. 393 ff.

[288] Cf. Aristotle’s _Rhetoric_ 1403_b_33, quoted as the motto of this
chapter.

[289] Cf. _Play-making_, p. 129.

[290] Cf. _The So-called Rule of Three Actors in the Classical Greek
Drama_, pp. 45-60.

[291] In addition to the works mentioned on pp. xvii and xx f., above,
cf. A. T. Murray, _On Parody and Paratragoedia in Aristophanes_ (1891);
Mazon, “Sur le Proagôn,” _Revue de Philologie_, XXVII (1903), 263 ff.;
Rees, “The Significance of the Parodoi in the Greek Theater,” _American
Journal of Philology_, XXXII (1911), 377 ff.; Graeber, _De Poetarum
Atticorum Arte Scaenica_ (1911); Robert, _Die Masken der neueren
attischen Komödie_ (1911); and the bibliography listed on p. 318, below.

[292] Cf. _Acharnians_, vss. 501 ff., Starkie’s edition, excursus V, and
Croiset, _Aristophanes and the Political Parties at Athens_, pp. 42 ff.
(Loeb’s translation).

[293] Cf. Demosthenes’ _Against Midias_, § 74.

[294] It probably began upon the tenth day of Elaphebolion (cf. Adams,
_Transactions of American Philological Association_, XLI [1910], 60 ff.)
and closed on the fifteenth.

[295] Cf. the Introduction to Hayley’s edition, pp. xxiii ff.

[296] Cf. Capps, in _Classical Philology_, I (1906), 219, note on l. 5,
and Wilhelm, _Urkunden dramatischer Aufführungen in Athen_, pp. 195 ff.

[297] Cf. _The Theory of the Theater_, p. 118.

[298] Cf. his _Aristotle on the Art of Poetry_, pp. 48 f.

[299] Cf. Dryden, _Dramatic Essays_ (Everyman’s Library edition), p. 20.

[300] Cf. Philostratus, _Apollonius of Tyana_, p. 245.

[301] Cf. note on vs. 38 in Tucker’s edition.

[302] Cf. note on these lines in Starkie’s edition, and Murray, _op.
cit._, p. 30.

[303] Figs. 68 f. are taken from Robert, _op. cit._, Figs. 55 and 77,
respectively.

[304] Cf. _Laws_ 659A-C.

[305] See pp. xvii f. above, and cf. Bartsch, _Entwickelung des
Charakters der Medea in der Tragödie des Euripides_ (Breslau, 1852), p.
24. For the Boeotian version of the incident in Euripides’ _Suppliants_,
cf. Pausanias i. 39. 2.

[306] There is a tradition that this play was not produced in Athens,
and some maintain that it was first played at Argos. In that case,
in addition to appealing to the convictions of the pro-Athenian,
anti-Spartan party in Argos, there must also have been the political
motive of gaining converts for that party.

[307] Cf. _Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature_, translated by Black
and Morrison, p. 38.

[308] In addition to the works mentioned on pp. xvii and xx f.,
above, and the bibliography listed on pp. 57-59, above, cf. Hense,
_Die Modificirung der Maske in der griechischen Tragödie²_ (1905);
Dignan, _The Idle Actor in Aeschylus_ (1905); Flickinger, “Scaenica,”
_Transactions of the American Philological Association_, XL (1909), 109
ff.; Robert, _Die Masken der neueren attischen Komödie_ (1911); Rees,
“The Significance of the Parodoi in the Greek Theater,” _American Journal
of Philology_, XXXII (1911), 377 ff., and “The Function of the Πρόθυρον
in the Production of Greek Plays,” _Classical Philology_, X (1915), 117
ff.; Harms, _De Introitu Personarum in Euripidis et Novae Comoediae
Fabulis_ (1914); Mooney, _The House-Door on the Ancient Stage_ (1914);
and Rambo, “The Wing-Entrances in Roman Comedy,” _Classical Philology_, X
(1915), 411 ff.

[309] Cf. Craig, _On the Art of the Theatre_ (1911), pp. 13 and 54 ff.,
and Cornford, _Thucydides Mythistoricus_ (1907), p. 142, n. 2.

[310] Fig. 70 is taken from Dörpfeld-Reisch, _Das griechische Theater_,
Fig. 43; Fig. 71 is from a photograph taken by Professor L. L. Forman and
furnished by Dr. A. S. Cooley.

[311] Cf. _Three Plays for Puritans_, p. xxxvi.

[312] Fig. 72 is taken from Puchstein, _Die griechische Bühne_, Fig. 3.

[313] Cf. Ridgeway, _Dramas and Dramatic Dances of Non-European Races_,
p. 83.

[314] Fig. 73 is taken from Baumeister, _Denkmäler_, Fig. 980. Within the
prothyron are the king of Corinth and his daughter, Jason’s second wife.
The latter is being assisted by her brother. In front lies an opened box
which contained the poisoned gifts. From the other side the queen comes
rushing. In the foreground is Medea slaying one of her children, while a
youth tries to rescue the other. In the center is Oistros, the demon of
madness, mounted upon a dragon chariot. Further on Jason is hastening to
aid his boys, and on the extreme right is the ghost of Aeetes, Medea’s
father. The design is apparently not based upon Euripides’ _Medea_. Cf.
Earle’s edition, pp. 60 f.

[315] Cf. _Discours des trois unités_, I, 119 (Regnier’s edition; 1862).

[316] Cf. Legrand, _The New Greek Comedy_, pp. 356 f., Loeb’s translation.

[317] For another interpretation cf. Mooney, _op. cit._, p. 19 and n. 13.

[318] The _Ajax_ is one of the earliest among Sophocles’ extant plays,
but its exact date is not known. I have assumed that it preceded the
introduction of a proscenium about 430 B.C. (see p. 235, above). If it
was written after that innovation, the statement in the text would have
to be altered accordingly, but the general method of procedure remains
the same in either case.

[319] Cf. Jebb, _The Attic Orators_, Vol. I, p. ciii.

[320] In addition to the works mentioned on pp. xvii and xx f. and
the bibliography listed on pp. 57-59, above, cf. Campbell, _Classical
Review_, IV (1890), 303 ff.; Verrall in his edition of Euripides’ _Ion_
(1890), pp. xlviii ff.; Krause, _Quaestiones Aristophaneae Scaenicae_
(1903); Kent, “The Time Element in the Greek Drama,” _Transactions of
the American Philological Association_, XXXVII (1906), 39 ff.; Felsch,
_Quibus Artificiis Adhibitis Poetae Tragici Graeci Unitates Illas et
Temporis et Loci Observaverint_ (1907); Polczyk, _De Unitatibus et Loci
et Temporis in Nova Comoedia Observatis_ (1909); Marek, _De Temporis
et Loci Unitatibus a Seneca Tragico Observatis_ (1909); Wolf, _Die
Bezeichnung von Ort und Zeit in der attischen Tragödie_ (1911); Butcher,
_Aristotle’s Theory of Poetry and Fine Art⁴_ (1911), pp. 274 ff.; Brasse,
_Quatenus in Fabulis Plautinis et Loci et Temporis Unitatibus Species
Veritatis Neglegatur_ (1914); and Manning, _A Study of Archaism in
Euripides_ (1916).

[321] ΧΟΡΟΥ is printed at this point in most editions but occurs in no
manuscript (see p. 145, above); it has been inserted by the editors.

[322] Cf. Scott, _Classical Philology_, VIII (1913), 453 ff.

[323] Πάλαι in vs. 587 is entirely subjective; cf. Conrad, _The Technique
of Continuous Action in Roman Comedy_ (1915), pp. 22 ff.

[324] For example, the slips which occur in Aristophanes’ _Lysistrata_
(vss. 725 and 881).

[325] Cf. _Discours des trois unités_, I, 113 f. (Regnier’s edition),
quoted by Butcher, _op. cit._, pp. 294 f.

[326] Cf. the introduction to his edition of the _Agamemnon_, and _Four
Plays of Euripides_, pp. 1-42.

[327] Cf. _Dramatic Essays_ (Everyman’s Library edition), p. 18.

[328] Cf. _Poetics_ 1449_b_12-14.

[329] Cf. England’s edition of Euripides’ _Iphigenia at Aulis_, p. xxvii.

[330] Cf. _The Bookman_, XXX (1909), 37.

[331] Cf. Archer, _Play-making_, pp. 123 f.

[332] Cf. _Poetics_ 1450_a_38 f.

[333] Cf. _Poetics_ 1450_b_22-35.

[334] Cf. _The Old English Dramatists_, III.

[335] Cf. _Poetics_ 1451_a_15-22.

[336] Cf. _Technique of the Drama_, MacEwan’s translation², pp. 30 ff.

[337] Cf. _Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist_ (1902), pp. 150 f.

[338] Cf. _Poetics_ 1459_b_22-28.

[339] Cf. _op. cit._, p. 92.

[340] Cf. _Dramatic Essays_ (Everyman’s Library edition), pp. 12 f.

[341] Cf. _Poetics_ 1454_a_31 ff.

[342] Cf. _Thucydides Mythistoricus_ (1907), p. 146.

[343] In addition to the works mentioned on pp. xvii and xx f., above,
cf. Petersen, _Preisrichter der grossen Dionysien_ (1878); Hayley,
“Social and Domestic Position of Women in Aristophanes,” _Harvard
Studies_, I (1890), 159 ff.; Lounsbury, _Shakespeare as a Dramatic
Artist_ (1902); Goodwin’s edition of Demosthenes’ _Against Midias_,
Appendix IV (1906); Capps, “Epigraphical Problems in the History of
Attic Comedy,” _American Journal of Philology_, XXVIII (1907), 179 ff.;
Legrand, _Daos; Tableau de la comédie grecque pendant la période dite
nouvelle_ (1910), translated by Loeb in 1917 under the title _The New
Greek Comedy_; Sheppard, _Greek Tragedy_ (1911); and Ruppel, _Konzeption
und Ausarbeitung der aristophanischen Komödien_ (1913).

[344] A mina was equivalent to one hundred drachmae and was worth about
$18, though allowance must be made for the greater purchase value of
money in those days.

[345] Cf. Lysias xxi, §§ 1-5.

[346] Cf. his _Life of Nicias_, III.

[347] Cf. Aristotle, _Constitution of Athens_, c. 56.

[348] Cf. Kock, _Comicorum Atticorum Fragmenta_, I, 16, fr. 15 (Cratinus).

[349] Cf. Sheppard, _op. cit._, p. 58.

[350] Cf. Legrand, _op. cit._, pp. 312-15 and 455 f.

[351] Cf. Prescott in _Classical Philology_, XI (1916), 132.

[352] Cf. Hall, _The Ancient History of the Near East²_ (1913), p. 48.

[353] Cf. Albright, _The Shakesperian Stage_ (1909), pp. 148 f.

[354] In addition to the works mentioned on pp. xvii and xx f., above,
cf. Thirlwall, “On the Irony of Sophocles,”_Philological Museum_,
II (1833), 483 ff.; Neckel, _Das Ekkyklema_ (1890); Trautwein, _De
Prologorum Plautinorum Indole atque Natura_ (1890); Dörpfeld-Reisch,
_Das griechische Theater_ (1896), pp. 234 ff.; Bethe, _Prolegomena zur
Geschichte des Theaters im Alterthum_ (1896), pp. 100 ff.; Exon, “A New
Theory of the Eccyclema,” _Hermathena_, XI (1901), 132 ff.; Leo, _Der
Monolog im Drama, ein Beitrag zur griechisch-römischen Poetik_ (1908);
Polczyk, _De Unitatibus et Loci et Temporis in Nova Comoedia Observatis_
(1909); Flickinger, “Dramatic Irony in Terence,” _Classical Weekly_,
III (1910), 202 ff.; Arnold, _The Soliloquies of Shakespeare_ (1911);
Fensterbusch, _Die Bühne des Aristophanes_ (1912), pp. 51 ff.; Harms, _De
Introitu Personarum in Euripidis et Novae Comoediae Fabulis_ (1914); and
Rees, “The Function of the Πρόθυροv in the Production of Greek Plays,”
_Classical Philology_, X (1915), 134 ff.

[355] Cf. scholia to Aeschylus’ _Eumenides_, vs. 64, Aristophanes’
_Acharnians_, vs. 408 and _Clouds_, vs. 184, and Clemens Alexandrinus, p.
11 (Potter).

[356] Fig. 74 is specially drawn, but owes several features to Figs. 93
f. in Dörpfeld-Reisch, _Das griechische Theater_. Since Exon’s discussion
and drawing of the eccyclema presuppose a theater with a stage, it has
been necessary to modify his conception so as to bring it into conformity
with the Dörpfeld theory.

[357] See p. 244, n. 1, above.

[358] Cf. scholia to Aristophanes’ _Acharnians_, vs. 408 and _Women at
the Thesmophoria_, vs. 284; Pollux iv. 128, and Eustathius, p. 976, 15.

[359] The _exostra_ (ἐξ, “out” + ὠθεῖν, to “push”) seems to have
performed about the same function as the eccyclema; cf. Pollux iv. 129;
perhaps it was only the more specific name for this later type.

[360] On the basis of ἀναβάδην in vs. 399, for which the scholiasts
preserve two interpretations, some writers would have us believe that
Euripides was shown in the second story. Tracks for the wheels of an
eccyclema have been reported on the logium level of the theater at
Eretria (see p. 107, above).

[361] Cf. _Poetics_ 1454_b_1 and 1461_b_21.

[362] Cf. _Euripides and the Spirit of His Dramas_, pp. 263 ff., Loeb’s
translation (1906).

[363] According to late authorities Greek theaters were provided with
revolving prisms (_periacti_) with a different view painted on each of
their three sides. These could be turned to indicate a change of scene.
There is no evidence, however, that this contrivance was employed during
the classical period of Greek drama, although Dörpfeld thought that a
place was provided for it in the earlier parascenia at Epidaurus (cf.
_Das griechische Theater_, p. 126). The _geranos_ (“crane”) and the
_krade_ (“branch”) were probably only other names for the μηχανή.

[364] Cf. Themistius _Oration_ xxvi, 316 D.

[365] Cf. _Poetics_ 1451_b_26.

[366] Cf. Archer, _Play-making_, p. 119.

[367] Cf. _Hamburgische Dramaturgie_, Zimmern’s translation, p. 377.

[368] Cf. _Euripides and His Age_, p. 206.

[369] Cf. Reitzenstein, _Hermes_, XXXV (1900), 622 ff.

[370] Cf. Kock, _Fragmenta Comicorum Atticorum_, II, 500, fr. 79.

[371] Aristotle’s theory of the purificatory effects of tragedy has
not fallen within the scope of my text, but I cannot forbear citing
Fairchild, “Aristotle’s Doctrine of Katharsis and the Positive or
Constructive Activity Involved,” _Classical Journal_ XII (1916), 44 ff.

[372] Cf. Capps, “Dramatic Synchoregia at Athens,” _American Journal
of Philology_, XVII (1896) 319 ff.; “Catalogues of Victors at the
Dionysia and Lenaea,” _ibid._, XX (1899), 388 ff.; “The Dating of Some
Didascalic Inscriptions,” _American Journal of Archaeology_, IV (1900),
74 ff.; “The Introduction of Comedy into the City Dionysia,” _Decennial
Publications of the University of Chicago_, VI (1904), 259 ff.; and
“Epigraphical Problems in the History of Attic Comedy,” _American Journal
of Philology_, XXVIII (1907), 179 ff.; Wilhelm, _Urkunden dramatischer
Aufführungen in Athen_ (1906), and “Eine Inschrift aus Athen,” _Anzeiger
d. Akademie d. Wissenschaften in Wien, phil.-hist. Klasse_, XLIII (1906),
77 ff.; Clark, “A Study of the Chronology of Menander’s Life,” _Classical
Philology_, I (1906), 313 ff.; _Oxyrhynchus Papyri_, IV (1904), 69 ff.,
and X (1914), 81 ff.; O’Connor, _Chapters in the History of Actors and
Acting in Ancient Greece_ (1908); Jachmann, _De Aristotelis Didascaliis_
(1909); and Flickinger, “Certain Numerals in the Greek Dramatic
Hypotheses,” _Classical Philology_, V (1910), 1 ff.

[373] Reisch, however, in his review of Wilhelm in _Zeitschrift f. östr.
Gymnasien_, LVIII (1907), 297 f. maintained that the original cutting
went to the bottom of col. 14. This would postpone the preparation of
the inscription until about 330 B.C. and would make it a feature of the
completion of the theater by Lycurgus at about that time. He suggests
that the Fasti stood in the left parodus of the theater.

[374] Fig. 75 is taken from Wilhelm, _Urkunden dramatischer Aufführungen
in Athen_, p. 18, and represents fragments _a_ and _f_ of _Corpus
Inscriptionum Graecarum_, II, 971.

[375] Fig. 76_a_ is taken from Wilhelm, _op. cit._, p. 40, and represents
_Corpus Inscriptionum Graecarum_, II, 973.

[376] Körte, “Aristoteles’ ΝΙΚΑΙ ΔΙΟΝΥΣΙΑΚΑΙ,” _Classical Philology_,
I (1906), 391 ff., maintained that the Victors’-Lists were transferred
to stone straight from another book of Aristotle’s entitled Νῖκαι
Διονυσιακαὶ Ἀστικαὶ καὶ Ληναϊκαί (“Victories at the City Dionysia and
the Lenaea”). Our knowledge of the nature of this work is confined to
what can be inferred from its title and is too vague to justify dogmatic
conclusions.

[377] Figs. 77_a_ and _b_ are taken from Wilhelm, _op. cit._, 101,
and represent _Corpus Inscriptionum Graecarum_, II, 977_a_ and _ab_
respectively.

[378] Fig. 78 is taken from Wilhelm, _op. cit._, p. 107 and represents
_Corpus Inscriptionum Graecarum_, II, 977_i_ and _k_, together with two
previously unpublished fragments.

[379] Fig. 79 is taken from Wilhelm, _op. cit._, p. 123, and represents
_Corpus Inscriptionum Graecarum_, II, 977_d_, _e_, _f_, _g_, and _h_.

[380] Fig. 80 is taken from Clarac, _Musée de Sculpture_, III, Pl. 294,
Fig. 65. Note that the first play in the list on the background is the
ΑΛΚΕΣ[ΤΙΣ].




INDICES




INDEX OF PASSAGES

(=Boldface= figures refer to the pages of this volume. Works which
are known to us only by title or short fragments are indicated by an
asterisk.)


  Aeschylus (525-456 B.C.)
    _Agamemnon_ (City Dionysia, 458 B.C.): vss. 1 ff., =225=, =285=,
        =291=, =305=; 40 ff., =298 f.=; 589, =255=; 810, =255 f.=;
        855 ff., =155=, =166=; 905-57, =276=; 1343-45, =128=, =229=;
        1344-71, =134=, =158-60=; 1348-71, =44=; 1372, =128=; also
        =137=, =198=, =256=, =258 f.=
    _Eumenides_ (City Dionysia, 458 B.C.): vss. 1 ff., =305=; 33-64,
        =286=; 64 (schol.), =285=; 79, =206=; 93, =286 f.=; 94, =287=;
        140-79, =151=, =287=; 234, =247=, =250=; 244, =151=; 306-96,
        =153 f.=; 744, =232=; 746-53, =171=; also =136 f.=, =198=,
        =232=, =247=, =258 f.=, =274=
    _Libation-Bearers_ (City Dionysia, 458 B.C.): vss. 10-16, =210 f.=;
        22 f., =150=; 766 ff., =166=; 886-902, 892 (schol.), =178=;
        900-903, =170=; 904, =128=; also =125=, =137-39=, =198=, =248=,
        =258 f.=
    _Niobe_,* =230=
    _Persians_ (City Dionysia, 472 B.C.): arg., =299=; vss. 1 ff.,
        =150=, =208=, =299=; 155 f., =208 f.=; 231-44, =219 f.=;
        249-90, =165=; 302-526, =128=; 348, 474 f., =220=; 681, =106=,
        =225 f.=; 761, =206=; 849 ff., =175=; also =56=, =124=, =134=,
        =136=, =139=, =166 f.=, =192=, =226=, =248 f.=, =276=, =298=,
        =305=
    _Prometheus Bound_ (_ca._ 470 B.C.): vss. 3, 12, =210 f.=; 81-88,
        =174=, =228=; 85, =210 f.=, =88 ff.=, =305=; 124-29, =290=; 133
        f., =150=; 136-40, =210=; 272-82, =290=; 284-87, 397 ff., =289
        f.=; 1067, =137=; 1093, =228=; also =20=, =134=, =137=, =139=,
        =166-68=, =174=; =192=, =226-28=, =258=
    _Prometheus the Fire-Kindler_,* frag. 207 (Nauck), =30=
    _Prometheus Unbound_* (_ca._ 470 B.C.), =227 f.=, =258=
    _Proteus_* (City Dionysia, 458 B.C.), =198=
    _Seven against Thebes_ (City Dionysia, 467 B.C.): arg., =23=; vss.
        1, =206=; 4-7, =210=; 78-180, =230=; 214, 240, =150=; 235,
        =206=; 375-676, =275 f.=; 800-821, =128=; 961-1005, =175=,
        =179=, =283=; also =134=, =136-38=, =166 f.=, =205=, =226=
    _Suppliants_ (_ca._ 490 B.C.): vss. 1 ff., =150=; 1-175, =230=; 12,
        176, =209=; 234-480, =165=, =230=; 234-503, =163 f.=, =166=,
        =169=; 247 ff., =209=; 524-99, =252=; 775-980, =173=; 776-836,
        =174=; 907-53, =164=, =166=; 953-80, =174=; also =56=, =133
        f.=, =136-38=, =163 f.=, =167-69=, =192=, =205=, =226=, =234=,
        =265=, =298=, =304 f.=
    _Weighing of Souls_,* =292=

  Agathon (first tragic victory, Lenaea, 416 B.C.)
    _Antheus_,* =124=

  Alexis (Middle Comedy), frag. 107 (Kock), =147=

  Antiphanes (Middle Comedy), frag. 191 (Kock), =127=, =316=

  Apostolius (born _ca._ 1420 A.D.), xiii. 42, =12 f.=, =21=, =29=

  Archilochus (_ca._ 680-640 B.C.), frag. 77 (Bergk), =7=

  Aristophanes (_ca._ 444-386 B.C.; Old Comedy)
    _Acharnians_ (Lenaea, 425 B.C.): vss. 20, =207=; 100-104, =171=,
        =173=, =187=; 133-74, =254=; 237-79, =36=; 262, =42=; 280-83,
        =37=, =151=; 347-92, =41= note, =42= note; 399 and (schol.),
        =288=; 408, =288=; 408 (schol.), =285=, =287=; 479, =288=;
        490-625, =41= note, =42= note; 501-7, =196 f.=; 640, =218=;
        719-835, =41=; 732, =91 f.=; 860-970, =41=; 1000-1068, =41= note,
        =42= note; 1003-7, =242=; 1069 f., =210=; 1069-1142, =41=; also
        =327=
    _Babylonians_* (City Dionysia, 426 B.C.), =196=, =327=
    _Banqueters_* (Lenaea, 427 B.C.), =326=
    _Birds_ (City Dionysia, 414 B.C.): arg., =330 f.=, =335=, =337=;
        310 f., =151=; 644 f., =212=; 786 ff., =197=; 801-902, =41=
        note, =42= note; 1101 f., =214=; 1118-1268, 1494-1705, =41=
        note, =42= note; 1615-79, =171=, =173=, =187=; 1763-66, =214=;
        also =234=
    _Clouds_ (City Dionysia, 423 B.C.): vss. 1, =238=, =243=; 126-32,
        =311=; 184 (schol.), =285=; 218 ff., =292=; 269, =151=; 537-39,
        =46=; 734, =46=; 1486 ff., =98=; also =135=, =138=, =207=, =213=,
        =235=
    _Frogs_ (Lenaea, 405 B.C.): vss. 1-460, =88-91=, =207=, =248=;
        154 f., =225=; 209 ff., =142=; 299 (schol.), =91=; 315, =142=;
        416-30, =51-53=; 454 f., =225=; 555, =171=, =173=, =187=;
        644-66, =132=; 674-737, =204=; 810 f., =122=; 830, =310=;
        866-69, =203 f.=; 1411 ff., =171=, =173=, =187=; also =127=,
        =135=, =138=
    _Knights_ (Lenaea, 424 B.C.): vss. 149, =91=; 230-32, =213=;
        461-97, =50=; 512-14, =327=; 522 f., =54=; 544-50, =216=; also
        =138 f.=, =327=
    _Lysistrata_ (Lenaea, 411 B.C.): vss. 1-6, =309=; 78-246, =171=,
        =173=, =187=; 385, =207=; 725, 881, =256=; also =41=, =278=
    _Peace_ (City Dionysia, 421 B.C.): vss. 80 ff., =292=; 296 ff.,
        =151=; 765-68, =214=; 962-65, =216=; 1039-1126, =50=
    _Plutus_ (388 B.C.): vss. 255, =151=; 322-486, =49=; 626, =254=,
        =257=; 770, =146=; 789-99, =216=; 821 f., =240=; also =41=,
        =43=, =92=
    _Proagon_* (422 B.C.), =205=
    _Wasps_ (Lenaea, 422 B.C.): vss. 57, =48=; 58 f., =216=; 1342, 1514,
        =91=; also =274=
    _Women at the Thesmophoria_ (_ca._ 411 B.C.): vss. 67 f., =240=;
        96, 265, =288=; 284 (schol.), =287=; also =188=, =207=, =278=
    _Women in Council_ (Lenaea, 392 B.C.): vss. 46-265, =44=; 311-478,
        =251=; 729, =146=; 871-1160, =138=; 876, =146=; 1152, =91=;
        1154-58, =214=; 1158-62, =200=; 1179-83, =214 f.=; also =41=,
        =43=, =92=, =135=, =188=, =278=

  _Aristophanis Vita_, § 11, =145=

  Aristotle (384-322 B.C.)
    _Constitution of Athens_, c. 56, =273=
    _Didascaliae_,* =319-21=, =324=, =329 f.=, =337=
    _Dionysian Victories_,* =324= note 1
    _Poetics_: 1448_a_31 f., =47=; _a_32-34, =51=; _b_1, =8=; 1449_a_8,
        =xi=; _a_9-13, =6 f.=, =16=, =36=, =44=; _a_18, =66=, =236=;
        _a_19 ff., =21-23=, =29=; _a_22 f., =22=; _a_37-_b_9, =35=;
        _a_38, =54 f.=; _b_3, =55=; _b_5-9, =50 f.=; _b_12-14, =257=;
        _b_33, =xi=; 1450_a_10, =xi=; _a_38 f., =261=; _b_17-21, =xi=;
        _b_22-35, =261 f.=; 1451_a_15-22, =262=; _b_25, =125=; _b_26,
        =301=; 1452_b_18, =93=; _b_24 f., =93=, =96=; 1453_a_19,
        =125=; _a_27, =93=; _b_1-3, =xi=; 1454_a_31-33, =267=; _b_1,
        =293=; 1455_a_28, =93=; 1456_a_6, =125=; _a_26-32, =144-49=;
        1459_b_22-28, =263=; _b_25, =93=; 1460_a_11-17, =93=, =95 f.=;
        1461_b_21, =293=; 1462_a_12, _a_14-17, =xi=; also =xxi=, =6=
        note 1, =17=, =246=, =317=
    _Politics_, 1336_b_28 f., =190=
    _Problems_, 918_b_26, 920_a_9, 922_b_17, =93=
    _Rhetoric_, 1403_b_33, =xii=, =162=, =190=

  Athenaeus (_ca._ 230 A.D.): p. 211B, =94=; p. 347E, =17=


  Bacchylides (_ca._ 468 B.C.)
    _Theseus_, =10=, =16=


  Clemens Alexandrinus (_ca._ 200 A.D.): p. 11 (schol.), =285=; p. 688,
        =96=

  _Corpus Inscriptionum._ _See_ Inscriptions

  Cratinus (Old Comedy; first victory at City Dionysia, 452 B.C.),
        frag. 15 (Kock), =273=
    _Dionysalexandros_* (_ca._ 430 B.C.), arg., =330=, =332-36=


  Demosthenes (_ca._ 384-322 B.C.): xviii. 180, xix. 337, =93=; xxi,
        arg. 2 f., =132=; xxi. 74, =197=; 178-80, =132=

  Diodorus Siculus (_ca._ 48 B.C.), xi. 10, =94=

  Diogenes Laertius (_ca._ 200 A.D.): iii. 56, =18 f.=; v. 92, =20=


  Ecphantides (Old Comedy; first victory _ca._ 455 B.C.), frag. 2
        (Kock), =48=

  Epicharmus (_ca._ 485 B.C.), frag. 132 (Kaibel), =8=

  _Etymologicum Magnum_ (tenth century, A.D.), _s.v._ θυμέλη, =18=;
    _s.v._ τραγῳδία, =27-29=

  Eupolis (Old Comedy), frag. 244 (Kock), =48=
    Αἶγες, =30=

  Euripides (485-406 B.C.)
    _Alcestis_ (City Dionysia, 438 B.C.): arg., =330-32=; vss. 1 ff.,
        =206=, =300=, =305=; 22 f., =240=, =300=; 24-26, =211=; 77,
        =252=; 206, =240=; 243 ff., =306=; 391, =129=; 393 ff., =179=,
        =189=; 423 f., 435-76, =152=; 452, =218=; 476, 506, =239 f.=;
        747-861, =234 f.=, =250 f.=, =306=; 837 ff., =306=, =311=; 861
        ff., 934-61, =307=; 1102, =315=; 1144-46, =232=; also =199=,
        =201=, =205=, =265=
    _Andromache_ (_ca._ 430 B.C.): vss. 1, 16, =206=, =306=; 445-49,
        =219=; 547, =179=; 547-766, =170=; 732 ff., 881, =176=; 815-25,
        =159=, =240=; 877-79, =281=; 1231 ff., =259=, =295=; also
        =219=, =257=
    _Andromeda_,* =292=
    _Bacchanals_ (City Dionysia, posthumous): vss. 1, =206=, =291=;
        170-79, 210-12, =212=; 526, =7=; 1024-1152, =128=; 1212 ff.,
        =98=; also =124=, =154=, =291=, =314=
    _Bellerophon_,* 292
    _Children of Heracles_ (_ca._ 430 B.C.): vss. 120 ff., =166=; 309-15,
        =218=; 642 f., =242 f.=; 1026-29, =218=; 1052, =128=; also =218=
    _Cyclops_ (_ca._ 440 B.C.): vss. 11 ff., =126=; 79 f., =31=; 445
        f., =240=; 479-82, =241=; 507 f., =240=; 601 ff., =153 f.=;
        608-27, 648, =154=; 653, =153 f.=; 655-62, =154=; 668, =222=;
        694 f., =241=; also =22=, =29=, =126=, =167=, =199=, =224=,
        =241=, =253=
    _Electra_ (_ca._ 413 B.C.): vss. 1-53, =259=; 168 ff., =151=; 341
        ff., =281=; 434-78, =139-41=, =143=; 1165-67, =128=; 1238,
        =259=; also =125=, =260=
    _Hecabe_ (_ca._ 425 B.C.): vss. 1-58, =226=, =302=; 68 f., =226=;
        105, =151=; 736-51, =312=; 1034-55, =131=, =159=; 1056, =222=;
        1132-1237, 275
    _Helen_ (412 B.C.): vss. 1-67, =301=; 184, =151=; 306, 317, =143=;
        385, 515, =251=; 1165-68, =248=; 1186-1300, =170=; 1301-68,
        =142=; 1387 ff., =156=, =160=, =294=; 1629 ff., =143=; 1662,
        =249=
    _Hippolytus_ (428 B.C.): vss. 42 f., =302=; 61-72, =141=; 129 ff.,
        =151=; 178-81, =240=; 565-600, =241 f.=; 710-14, =156=; 776-87,
        =159=; 1060-63, =312=; 1102-19, =140=; 1342, =222=; 1423-30,
        =295=; also =235=
    _Hypsipyle_,* vss. 1579 ff., =179 f.=
    _Ion_ (_ca._ 412 B.C.): vss. 72 f., =302 f.=; 183-228, =160=; 234
        f., =151=; 666 f., =157=; 675, =177=; 760, =157=; 1130 ff.,
        =177=; 1520 ff., =312=; 1553 ff., =302 f.=
    _Iphigenia at Aulis_ (City Dionysia, posthumous): vss. 1, =225=;
        164 ff., 187 f., =151=; 303, 307, =310=; 794-800, =140=; 1211
        ff., =267=; 1532 f., =242 f.=; also =205=, =302=
    _Iphigenia among the Taurians_ (_ca._ 414 B.C.): vss. 42 f., =308=;
        66, =252=; 1061-68, =156=, =160=; 1068-70, =88=; 1234-83, =142
        f.=; 1392, =294=; 1435 ff., =201 f.=, =294 f.=; 1446-61, =295=;
        1447, 1462, =249=; 1467 f., =160 f.=; 1497 ff., xvii, =215=;
        also =205=
    _Madness of Heracles_ (_ca._ 421 B.C.): vss. 158-205, =275=;
        749-54, =128=; 822 ff., =260=, =310=; 1029 ff., =128=, =288 f.=
    _Medea_ (431 B.C.): arg., =266 f.=; vss. 1 ff., =307 f.=; 49-52,
        =307=; 56-58, =240=, =308 f.=; 131 ff., =151=; 230-66, =156
        f.=; 465-575, =275=; 663 ff., =293=; 824 ff., =xviii=, =217=;
        1053 f., =159=; 1271 ff., =179=; 1279 ff., =160=; 1312 ff.,
        =159=; 1321 ff., =292=; also =237=, =266 f.=
    _Orestes_ (408 B.C.): vss. 1, =238=, =243=; 26 f., =306=; 131-211,
        =153=; 1103 f., =156=; 1245, =177=; 1251, =143 f.=; 1313-20,
        =222 f.=; 1353 ff., =143 f.=; 1554, 1591, =177=; 1625-32, =292
        f.=, =295 f.=; 1691 (schol.), =215=; 1691 ff., =xvii=, =215=;
        also =303=
    _Phaethon_,* frag. 773 (Nauck), =93=
    _Phoenician Maids_ (_ca._ 410 B.C.): vss. 88-102, =178=, =191=,
        =281=, =291=; 93 (schol.), =178=; 192 ff., =93=, =282=; 202
        ff., =151=; 202 (schol.), =139=; 261-73, 357 f., =249=; 638-75,
        =140=; 801-27, =140 f.=; 1019-67, =140=; 1264-82, =178=, =181=;
        1308, =222=; 1764 ff., =xvii=, =215=; also =136=, =138=, =205=
    [_Rhesus_] (possibly a fourth-century production): vss. 1 ff.,
        =299=; 10, =209=; 565-674, =251=; 627 f., 885 f., =291=; also
        =92=, =148=, =224=, =253=
    _Suppliants_ (_ca._ 421 B.C.): vss. 403-8, =219=; 510-13, =171=;
        598-634, =257=; 1071, =129=; 1183, =294=; also =137 f.=, =205=,
        =218=, =231 f.=
    _Trojan Women_ (415 B.C.): vss. 1 f., =305=; 143-45, =151=; 208 f.,
        =218=; also =274=

  Eusebius (_ca._ 300 A.D.)
    _Chronica_, Ol. 47, 2, =14=

  Eustathius (twelfth century A.D.), p. 976, 15, =287=


  Hegemon (Old Comedy), =217=

  Herodotus (_ca._ 484-428 B.C.): i. 23, =9 f.=; v. 63, =11-15=; v. 82
        f., =37=

  Homer (_ca._ 875 B.C.)
    _Iliad_ iii, =255=; xxii. 205 f., =95=
    _Odyssey_ iv, =280=; iv. 121 f., vi. 102 ff., =255=; xi. 185 f. and
        445, =254 f.=; xxiv. 417, =282=
    Also =245=, =266=, =277=, =279 f.=, =282=, =289=, =301=, =304-6=

  Horace (65-68 B.C.)
    _Ars Poetica_: vss. 119 ff., =266=; 189 f., =193=; 192, =186=; 220
        f., =28 f.=; 276, =19=


  Inscriptions
    From Athens, =72=, =74=, =90=, =319-30=
    From Delos, =59= note, =107 f.=
    From Delphi, =185=
    From Oropus, =108 f.=
    From Paros, =14=, =21=, =38=


  Jerome (Hieronymus; _ca._ 400 A.D.)
    _Chr._, Ol. 47, 2, =14=


  _Liber Glossarum_, =46=

  Lucian (_ca._ 150 A.D.)
    _Lucius sive Asinus_, § 47, =94=

  Lysias (458-378 B.C.), xxi. 1-5, =271=


  Magnes (Old Comedy), =54=

  _Marmor Parium_ (264 B.C.): p. 13 (Jacoby), =38=; p. 14, =14=, =21=

  _Medea_* (unknown author; fourth century B.C.), =146=, =148=

  Menander (New Comedy; 342-291 B.C.)
    _Girl with Shorn Locks_, =147=, =304=
    _Hero_,* =304=
    _Imbrians_* (_ca._ 301 B.C.), arg., =331 f.=, =336 f.=
    Jernstedt frag., =147=


  _Parian Chronicle._ _See_ _Marmor Parium_

  Pausanias (second century A.D.), viii. 9. 1, =7=

  Philemon (New Comedy; died _ca._ 262 B.C.), frag. 79 (Kock), =309=

  Philostratus (_ca._ 200 A.D.)
    _Apollonius of Tyana_, p. 245, =203=

  Photius (died 891 A.D.)
    _Lexicon_, _s.v._ ἴκρια, _s.v._ ληναῖον, _s.v._ ὀρχήστρα, =63=;
        _s.v._ οὐδὲν πρὸς τὸν Διόνυσον, =12 f.=, =21=, =29=

  Phrynichus (first tragic victory, 511 B.C.)
    _Capture of Miletus_ (_ca._ 490 B.C.), =124=
    _Phoenician Women_ (City Dionysia, 476 B.C.), =56=, =124=, =141=,
        =192=, =205=, =210=, =276=, =298=, =305=

  Pindar (522-442 B.C.)
    _Olym._ xiii, =7=, =9=

  Plato (428-347 B.C.)
    _Laws_, p. 659A-C, =216=; 700B, =7=
    _Minos_, p. 321A, =16=
    _Republic_, p. 394C (schol.), =7=, =11=
    _Symposium_, p. 194B, =205 f.=

  Plautus (died 184 B.C.)
    _Amphitruo_, vss. 1 ff., 463 ff., =304=; also =208=
    _Braggart Captain_: vss. 79 ff., =304=; 88, =208=; 145 ff., =303
        f.=; 523 ff., =243=
    _Captives_: vss. 69, =256=; 460-768, =255 f.=; 897, =256=
    _Carthaginian_, vss. 94, 372, =207=
    _Casket_: vss. 89 f., =123=; 149 ff., =304=; 156-59, =123=
    _Churl_: vss. 1-3, =207=; 448, =238=
    _Fisherman’s Rope_: vs. 32, =208=; also =236=
    _Haunted House_, vss. 1, =240=; 248, =238 f.=
    _Menaechmi_: vss. 8 f., =207=; 956, =249=
    _Merchant_, vss. 3-5, =309=
    _Persian_, =278=
    _Pseudolus_ (191 B.C.), vss. 720 f., =233=

  Plutarch (_ca._ 90 A.D.)
    _Aratus_ xxiii, =103=
    _Brutus_ xlv, =94=
    _Demetrius_ xxxii, =94=; xxxiv, =101-3=
    _Lycurgus_ vi, =101=
    _Nicias_ iii, =271=
    _Pompey_ xlii, =81=
    _Solon_ xxix, =17-19=
    _Praecepta Ger. Reip._, p. 823B, =102=
    [_X Oratorum Vitae_], p. 841D, 852C, =69=
    Also =60= note

  Pollux (second century A.D.)
    _Onomasticon_: iv. 123, =18 f.=, =78 f.=, =97-99=; 124, =100 f.=;
        127, =60=, =78 f.=; 128, =287=; 132, =106=; also =94=, =213=

  Pratinas (_ca._ 499 B.C.), frag. 1 (Bergk), =7=


  Seneca (died 65 A.D.)
    _Agamemnon_, vss. 981 ff., =188=; also =141=
    _Hercules on Mt. Oeta_, vss. 104 ff., 583 ff., 1031 ff., =141=
    _Medea_, vss. 973, 995, =60=

  Simonides (556-467 B.C.)
    _Memnon_,* =11=

  Solon (639-559 B.C.)
    _Elegies_,* =8 f.=, =11=

  Sophocles (497-406/5 B.C.)
    _Ajax_ (_ca._ 440 B.C.): vss. 1 ff., =291=; 134 (schol.), =139=;
        143, =151=; 344, =287=; 372 ff., =306=; 593, =287=; 814, =247=,
        =250=; 865, =129=, =282=; 892, 915, =244=; also =244=
    _Antigone_ (_ca._ 441 B.C.): arg., =330 f.=, =335=; vss. 18 f.,
        =240=; 101, =206=; 164 f., =151=; 334-75, =142=; 639-723,
        =275=; 806 ff., =306=; 1016-22, 1080-83, =131=; 1115-52, =142=;
        1293, =128=; also =139=, =192 f.=, =282=
    _Electra_ (_ca._ 420-414 B.C.): vss. 4, =206=; 15, 32 ff., =259
        f.=, =310=; 129 f., =151 f.=; 310 ff., 516 ff., =152=; 660 ff.,
        =168=; 1202-4, =155 f.=; 1296-1313, =222=; 1404, =128=; also
        =125=
    _Maidens of Trachis_ (_ca._ 420-410 B.C.): vss. =1-48=, =302=;
        103, =151=; 167 f., =314=; 307-27, =176 f.=; 983-1263, =129=;
        1170-73, =314=; also =139=
    _Nausicaa_,* =169=
    _Oedipus at Colonus_ (402 B.C.; posthumous): vss. 1 ff., 38, =212=;
        117, =151=; 494-506, =171=; 1099-1555, 1457-99, =182=, =187=;
        1611 ff., =187=; also =180-82=, =205=, =218=, =227=, =231=,
        =236=
    _Oedipus the King_ (_ca._ 430 B.C.): vss. 6 f., =240=; 91-95,
        =155=; 144, =151=; 264, =313=; 924 ff., =167 f.=; 1014 ff.,
        =314=; 1268-79, =131=; 1307, =222=; also =205=, =273=
    _Philoctetes_ (409 B.C.): vss. 38 f., =131=; 135 ff., =150=; 649
        f., 696-99, =131=; 825-62, =153=; 1070-95, =158=; 1408, =296=
    _Thamyris_,* =169=
    _Trackers_ (_Ichneutae_; _ca._ 445 B.C.): =22=, =29-31=, =126=,
        =199=

  Suidas (_ca._ 970 A.D.), _s.v._ Aeschylus, =325=; _s.v._ Arion, =10=;
        _s.v._ οὐδὲν πρὸς τὸν Διόνυσον, =12 f.=, =15=, =21=, =29=;
        _s.v._ Phrynichus, =4=; _s.v._ Pratinas, =23=, =63=; _s.v._
        Sophocles, =325=; _s.v._ Thespis, =12=, =20=


  Terence (died 159 B.C.)
    _Andrian girl_ (166 B.C.): vss. 236 ff., =314=; 247, 301 ff., =315
        f.=; 420 ff., =315=; 489-94, =242=; 581-96, 625 ff., =315=; 820
        f., =310=; 957 ff., =315=; also =279=, =304=
    _Brothers_ (160 B.C.), vs. 517, =310=
    _Phormio_ (161 B.C.), vss. 862-69, =241=
    _Self-Tormentor_ (163 B.C.): vss. 171, 409, =141 f.=; 410, =253=,
        =257=; 748, =141 f.=

  Themistius (died _ca._ 388 A.D.), p. 316D, =298=

  Thespis (sixth century B.C.), =20 f.=

  Tzetzes (twelfth century A.D.), p. 18 (Kaibel _Com. Gr. Frag._), =52
        f.=


  Vitruvius (_ca._ 15 B.C.): v. 6 f., =75-77=, =87=, =97=; v. 8, 2,
        =80=;
    vii. praefatio, 11, =66=, =236=;
    viii, praefatio, 1, =96=; also =79-87=, =90 f.=, =92=





GENERAL INDEX

(References to ancient playwrights are supplementary to the Index
of Passages; those to modern playwrights may be found by consulting
“Parallels.” For theaters at various sites see “Theater.” All references
are to the pages of this volume.)


  Acceleration of time, 250-57

  Actors, xi f., xiv, xix, 5, 35, 132 f., 162-95;
    first actor, 16-19, 162, 165;
    two actors, 163-71, 173-76, 183, 231 f.;
    three actors, 166-71, 176-83, 185-88, 231;
    number of, 129, 172-82, 182-84, 192;
    poets as, 18, 168 f., 318;
    coryphaeus as, 165, 169-71;
    in satyr-plays, 26;
    in comus, 43-46;
    in comedy, 46-49, 54-56;
    position in theater, 60, 77-79, 81 f., 86, 88-103, 117, 130, 149;
    ignored, 91, 163, 169, 173, 209, 230, 232;
    and chorus, 136-39, 149;
    contests of, 169, 269;
    guilds, 185-88;
    female rôles, 4, 188 f.;
    social position, 190 f.;
    specialization, 191 f., 202 f.;
    how introduced, 208-12;
    how paid, 165, 183 f., 270;
    how assigned, 273 f.
    _See_ Aesthetic Law, Children, Lay Figure, Masks, Motivation, Mute,
        Parachoregema, etc.

  Acts, 148, 192-95, 265, 301, 307, 311

  Adrastus, 11-15, 17, 35

  Aeschylus:
    first tragic poet, 2, 33;
    introduced second actor, 166, 183;
    indebted to Homer, 17;
    imitated by Euripides, xviii;
    contested with Pratinas and Choerilus, 23 f., 63;
    originated tetralogies, 23, 133 f.;
    brought knowledge of Epicharmus to Athens, 56;
    historical themes, 124;
    dialogue, 170 f.;
    plays repeated, 203 f., 324;
    murders, 229;
    soliloquies, 305;
    iambic resolutions, 171 f.;
    victories, 272, 321, 324 f.

  Aesthetic law of actors, 53, 186-88;
    violence, 130 f., 229;
    of supports for stage, 86;
    effect of third actor, 167

  Aetiology, 6, 15, 295

  Agathon, 93, 124, 144-46, 148, 205 f.

  Agon, 41, 43-46, 49, 55, 193, 275

  Agonothete, 109, 271 f., 325

  Alexis, 304

  ἀναβαίνω, 91 f.

  ἀναγνώρισις. _See_ Recognition

  Ancestor worship, 33 f.

  Anthropology, 4 f.

  Aparts (asides), 312

  ἀποκρίνεσθαι, 16

  Arion, 8-11, 13, 24, 32 f.

  Aristias, 23

  Aristomenes, 327 f.

  Aristophanes:
    productivity, 335;
    sought prize, xviii, 213-16;
    used coryphaei as actors, 44;
    borrowed ἐξόδια, 45;
    use of phallus, 46 f.;
    of chorus, 146;
    _Frogs_ repeated, 204;
    imitated Euripides, 302;
    technique of dual entrance, 310;
    iambic resolutions, 172;
    position of name in records, 326-29

  Aristotle, ix, xxi, 5 f., 21;
    and spectacle, xi-xiii, xv f.;
    on origin of comedy, 35 f., 50-52, 54 f.;
    of tragedy, 6, 21 f., 28 f.

  ἀταξία, ἀτάκτως, 52 f., 184

  Audience, xiii, xvii, xix, 120 f., 132, 213, 215-20, 302 f., 305 f.


  Back scene, 65 f., 226-29, 241

  Bethe, 79

  Blinding, 131, 159, 222

  βοηλάτης, 7

  Box set, xv, 229

  Bulle, 31 f.

  Burial, 282 f.

  Butcher, 252

  Bywater, 6, 51


  Callistratus, 326, 328

  Capps, 23, 35, 55 f., 88, 144

  Castelvetro, xiii, 130

  Charon’s steps, 106

  Chauvinism, xvii f., 217-20

  Children, 120 f., 179 f., 189

  Chionides, 35, 51, 54

  Choerilus, 23, 63

  Choregus, 132, 182, 186, 205, 269-71, 273

  ΧΟΡΟΥ, 145-48, 193 f., 254

  Chorus (choreutae), 2, 5, 10 f., 132, 133-61;
    size of in dithyramb, 11, 132, 197;
    in satyr-play, 26;
    in tragedy, 133 f.;
    in comedy, 42, 134 f.;
    of satyrs, 2, 10, 15, 24-32, 136, 154;
    “goat” choruses at Sicyon, 11;
    non-satyric at Sicyon, 13 f., 15;
    likewise at Athens, 10 f.;
    of sileni, 16, 21, 24, 26, 29, 32, 135;
    transferred from Adrastus to Dionysus, 11-15;
    in comus, 42-46, 134;
    in comedy, 49, 51, 53 f., 135;
    as actors, 18, 43-45, 184;
    speaks through coryphaeus, 165;
    history of, 92 f., 97, 116 f., 148 f., 168, 193;
    position of, 77-79, 81, 88, 95, 99, 130, 149;
    relation to actors, 136-39, 147, 149, 193;
    relevancy of odes, 139-50;
    second and third chorus, 141;
    participation in plot, 88, 93, 117, 143 f.;
    constantly present, 154-60, 226, 243, 247, 250, 253, 307, 312;
    withdraws, 154, 247, 250 f., 306;
    preferably feeble, 160;
    introduces actors, 208-11;
    songs a hindrance, 153 f.;
    how paid, 165, 270 f.
    _See_ Embolima, Impersonation, Motivation, Odes, etc.

  City Dionysia, 196 f., 273;
    reorganized, 24, 203, 269;
    procession, 20, 121-23, 132, 197, 224;
    dithyrambs, 11, 23, 197;
    satyr-plays, 23 f., 198 f., 204;
    tragedy, 21, 119, 197;
    old tragedies, 204, 324;
    comus, 24, 38, 119 f., 319;
    comedy, 51, 119, 197, 199 f.;
    tetralogies, 23, 133 f., 198 f., 203 f., 322 f., 332;
    contest of actors, 169, 183-85, 202;
    records, 318-28.
    _See_ Prize, Proagon, etc.

  Clisthenes, 11, 14 f.

  Closet drama, xii, xiv

  Coincidence, 277, 293

  Comedy:
    etymology, 36;
    Old, Middle, and New, 39 f.;
    divisions, 40-42, 193-95;
    violence in, 132;
    chorus, 134 f., 147, 149, 162.
    _See_ Origin of Comedy, Comus, etc.

  Commus, 96

  Comus, 24, 36-38, 42-46, 119 f., 127, 132, 162, 319

  _Contaminatio_, 188, 194

  Conventions, xvi, 66, 91, 129, 132, 152-54, 157 f., 165 f., 182, 208,
        224-26, 228, 233 f., 236 f., 248, 254 f., 260 f., 266, 284,
        287, 309 f.

  Cook, 24, 26

  Corinth, 4, 7-9, 11, 13, 15

  Cornford, 36 f., 51, 149 f., 160, 224, 267

  Coryphaeus, 10 f., 16, 18, 44, 49, 53, 134, 165, 168, 171, 187

  Costumes, 271;
    of satyrs, 2, 16, 24-32;
    of sileni, 16, 24, 26, 29, 32;
    in comus, 38, 43 f.;
    in comedy, 46 f., 135;
    in tragedy, 135 f., 162;
    of tragia choreutae, 2, 16, 21 f., 24-32

  Crane. _See_ μηχανή

  Crates, 35, 50-52, 54-56

  Cratinus, 52-56, 327, 330, 335 f.

  Criticism, xi, xiii-xvi

  Curtain, 243-45, 247, 250, 311


  Deckinger, x

  De Prott, 26 f.

  Deus ex machina, 59 f., 201 f., 258 f., 292-98, 303.
    _See_ μηχανή

  Dialogue, 10, 18, 164 f., 169-71, 178-82, 186 f., 232, 239, 241 f.,
        252, 259 f., 299 f., 309-11

  Didascalia (group of plays), 198, 318;
    (record), 318, 321-26, 330

  Didascalic numerals, 330-37

  Didascalus, 318, 326-30

  Dieterich, 6, 19

  Dindorf, 330, 335, 337

  Dionysus, 2, 6 f., 10-17, 20 f., 26, 33, 36, 104, 119, 121-24, 126
        f., 142, 162 f., 198 f.
    _See_ “Nothing to do with Dionysus”

  Dithyramb:
    source of tragedy, 2, 4, 6, 16, 119, 123, 198;
    source of satyric drama, 2, 4, 23 f., 123, 198;
    nature of, 6-8, 10 f., 33, 123, 133, 162, 197;
    broadened, 7, 10 f.;
    improvisational, 6, 10, 23;
    poetized, 8-11, 23;
    given titles, 9 f.;
    impersonation, 10, 16 f., 162 f.;
    modified by Thespis, 16-21;
    admitted to City Dionysia, 11, 23, 197;
    prizes for, 7, 11, 14, 269

  Dorians, 8 f., 15 f., 47 f., 56

  Dörpfeld, 58 f., 61, 67, 72, 74-76, 80-86, 97 f., 100, 117, 130, 226

  Drachma, 120, 269

  Drama, xiv f., 8 f., 10, 16 f.
    _See_ Satyric Drama

  Dramaturgy, x, xii
    _See_ Technique

  δρώμενα, 6, 8, 17

  Dryden, 202, 257, 265


  Eccyclema, 107, 241, 284-89

  ἐλεός, 18

  Eleusis, 6, 17, 37

  Eleutherae, 21, 63, 122

  Embolima, 93, 144-49

  England, 258 f.

  Eniautos-Daimon, 6

  Environment, ix, xvi

  Epic, xi, 17, 95, 244, 257, 263.
    _See_ Homer

  Epicharmus, 50 f., 56

  Epigenes, 12 f., 15, 24, 32 f.

  Epilogue, 258 f.

  Episcenium, 59, 106-9, 111, 113, 289

  Episode (ἐπεισόδιον), 41, 47, 49

  Euripides:
    career, xviii, 205, 334;
    imitated Aeschylus, xviii;
    and Thespis, 299 f.;
    tags, xvii, 215;
    melodramatic, xviii;
    chauvinistic, xviii, 217-19;
    sought prize, xvii f., 215, 217-19;
    introduced sex problems, xviii;
    chorus, 144-46;
    deus ex machina, 201 f., 258 f., 294-96, 303;
    prologue, 206, 258, 299-304;
    eccyclema, 288;
    μηχανή, 292;
    soliloquies, 299-302, 305-9;
    technique of simultaneous entrance, 310;
    iambic resolutions, 172;
    indicated scene of action, 206;
    was criticized, 266 f., 293, 300, 302;
    modified myths, 300 f.;
    as skeptic, 96, 140;
    productivity, 334;
    popularity, xviii, 204, 272 f., 324 f.

  ἐξάρχων, 6 f., 16, 36, 44

  Exodus, 41 f., 45 f., 55

  Exon, 286

  Exostra, 288


  Fasti, 319-21, 324, 330

  Fear and pity, 128, 245, 317

  Fiechter, 70, 79, 81-86

  Flight, 289-92

  Flute-player, 26, 30, 271

  Frei, 96

  Frickenhaus, 20, 121

  Fries, 138

  Furtwängler, 16, 67


  γέρανος, 298

  Ghosts, 106, 225 f., 248, 302

  Gildersleeve, 94

  Goat:
    as prize, 7, 11, 13-16, 24, 268;
    as sacrifice, 14 f., 269;
    “goat” choruses, 11 f., 15;
    goat-song, 13 f., 21;
    goatskin, 26-28, 30 f.
    _See_ Satyrs and Choreutae

  Gods, position of, 289-93

  Gomperz, 22

  Goodell, xvii f.

  Guglielmino, xvii


  Haigh, 10, 27, 79, 120 f.

  Harrison, 6, 17

  Heraclides, 20 f.

  Hermann, 78 f.

  Homer, 17, 244, 254 f., 266, 279 f., 282, 289, 300, 304-6.
    _See_ Epic

  Hyposcenium, 61, 74, 84 f., 97, 100 f., 111, 113, 115

  Hypothesis, 330


  Iambic. _See_ Meter

  Icaria, 4, 16 f., 19, 21, 38

  ἴκρια, 63, 66, 105, 108

  Immediate effects, xvii

  Impersonation (μίμησις), 10, 16-18, 43-45, 49, 53 f., 162 f.

  Improvisation, 6, 10, 16, 36, 38

  Interior scenes, xv, 68, 128, 229, 231, 237-43, 248, 278, 284 f.

  Irony, 312-17


  Jachmann, 329 f.

  Judges, 214-16, 272 f.


  Kaffenberger, 172, 187

  Kaibel, 152

  καταβαίνω, 91 f., 102 f.

  Katharsis, 317

  κῶμος. _See_ Comus

  κονίστρα, 72

  Körte, 46 f., 324

  κράδη, 298


  Lay figure, 166 f., 174, 228, 244

  Legrand, 277

  Lenaea, 38, 56, 119 f., 183 f., 196, 202, 204 f., 269, 273, 318,
        324-29

  Leo, 187, 307

  Lighting, 224-26, 233, 243, 253

  Litigiousness, 274 f.

  Logium (λογεῖον), 59 f., 76, 86, 97 f., 100, 102, 107, 111 f., 288,
        291 f.

  Lot, 272 f.

  Lycurgus, 68-70, 191.
    _See_ Theater


  _Machina._ _See_ μηχανή

  Magic, 17, 153, 155

  Magnes, 35, 51, 54

  Marrett, 34

  Masks, 19, 26, 42, 49, 54, 130, 163 f., 173, 188, 212 f., 221-24, 266

  μηχανή, 68, 109, 235, 287, 289, 292 f.

  Megara, 47 f., 56

  μελάναιγις, 21

  Menander, 304, 332, 336 f.

  Messenger, 128, 164, 191, 229, 241, 248, 251, 276, 294

  Meter, 10, 16;
    iambic, 22, 171 f.;
    trochaic tetrameter, 22, 45

  μίμησις. _See_ Impersonation

  Mina, 269

  Mooney, 231, 243

  Motivation:
    for movements of actors, 93, 147, 173 f., 229-33, 238-43, 249, 261,
        281 f., 300;
    for movements of chorus, 150-52, 250 f.;
    for choral odes, 140-43, 152-54, 217;
    for unchanging features, 222 f.;
    for lack of darkness, 225 f.;
    for silence, 165, 176 f., 232;
    for soliloquies, 304 f., 308

  Murder. _See_ Violence

  Murray, A. T., 201, 210

  Murray, G., xviii, 2, 6, 23, 158, 303

  Music, xi

  Mute, 174, 176 f., 179-81, 232, 244, 271

  Mythology, xviii, 123-26, 217, 219.
    _See_ Themes


  Navarre, 42, 146

  Nemesis, 275 f.

  Nilsson, 9

  “Nothing to do with Dionysus,” 12 f., 21, 29

  Numerals given plays, 330-37


  Obol, 120

  Odes (στάσιμα), xv, 23, 41, 139-50, 152-54, 162 f., 192 f., 217, 252.
    _See_ Embolima

  Oratorio, 16

  Orchestra, 57, 63, 65 f., 68 f., 72-79, 81-86, 88-91, 93, 95, 97-100,
        102-8, 110-17, 130, 221, 223, 226, 228, 231, 233, 289, 292, 298

  Origin of comedy, 1, 35-56;
     obscurity of, 6, 35 f.;
     improvisational, 36;
     and comus, 36-38, 42-46, 127, 133;
     impersonation, 43-45, 49, 53 f., 162 f.;
     actors from Megara, 46-48, 53, 56;
     influence of tragedy, 49 f., 53 f., 127, 146;
     of mime, 50 f., 56, 127;
     plot, 50-52, 54, 127

  Origin of tragedy, 1-35;
    no serious gaps, 6;
    improvisational, 6;
    from dithyramb, 2, 4, 6, 16, 133, 198;
    Arion, 8-11;
    Sicyon, 11-15;
    occasion for name, 13-15, 268;
    Icaria, 16 f.;
    Thespis, 16-21;
    impersonation, 16-18, 162 f.;
    first actor, 16-19;
    non-Dionysiac themes, 21, 23, 198 f.;
    passed through “satyric” stage, 22 f., 28 f.
    _See_ Homer, Ridgeway, Satyrs, Sileni, Thespis, etc.

  ὄψις. _See_ Spectacle


  Panels. _See_ πίνακες

  Parabasis, 41-43, 45 f., 49 f., 55, 193

  Parachoregema, 182, 186, 271

  Parallelism in comus and comedy, 42-46

  Parallels from modern theory and modern and mediaeval drama:
    Albright, 283;
    Archer, 148, 190 f., 261, 302;
    Brown, 263;
    Corneille, 256, 264;
    Cornford, 149, 224;
    Craig, 223 f., 284;
    Dennis, 152, 155, 221;
    Dryden, 202, 265;
    Elizabethan drama, 23, 188, 224, 244;
    Galsworthy, xv f.;
    Goethe, xiv, 12, 125, 140;
    Gray, 155;
    Greene, 145;
    Hamilton, xiii, 201;
    Ibsen, 242, 261, 266, 299, 311;
    Jones, xix;
    Kennedy, 264;
    Lessing, 225, 246, 303;
    Lounsbury, 130, 263 f., 279;
    Lowell, 262;
    Marlowe, 254;
    Matthews, xiii f.;
    Middleton, 313;
    Molière, 230 f., 264, 297 f.;
    Parker, 238;
    Racine, 124, 147, 264;
    Savage, 261;
    Schlegel, 220;
    Shakespeare, 123, 128, 141, 170, 188, 201 f., 208, 212, 225, 232,
        243, 252, 256, 263, 283, 297, 303 f., 313;
    Shaw, 229;
    Sutro, 229;
    Voltaire, 201, 225;
    Walter, 263;
    also x, 16, 120, 123-25, 129-31, 162 f., 170, 190, 201 f., 236,
        238, 243 f., 246, 248, 302

  Parascenium, 58, 66-70, 97 f., 104 f., 107 f., 111, 228, 235, 285,
        287, 289

  Parodus (of chorus), 40, 45 f., 49, 55, 209, 252, 287, 298 f., 304

  Parodus (of theater), 59-61, 65 f., 70, 72, 75, 99, 102-4, 106, 108,
        208, 226-28, 230 f., 233-35, 286

  Parody, 39, 200 f., 207, 210, 288, 309

  Patriotism, xvii f., 217-20

  Periacti, 298

  περιπέτεια. _See_ Reversal of Situation

  Phallic, 36 f., 43, 46 f.

  Phlius, 4, 23 f.

  Phrynichus, 4, 6, 124, 141

  Pickard-Cambridge, 3, 10, 12, 14, 22

  πίνακες, 68, 71, 86, 107-9, 235 f., 244

  Pisistratus, 21, 63

  Plautus, ix, xx, 188, 194 f., 234, 304, 307, 309-11

  Playbill, 204-13, 254, 301

  Plot, 50-52, 54, 127, 261-63

  Plutarch. _See_ Theater

  Poets, xvi, 18, 26, 123-27, 220, 271, 273, 318, 326-30

  Pollux. _See_ Theater

  Pompey, 80 f., 85

  Porch, 68, 235 f., 238

  Pratinas, 4, 23 f., 25, 63

  Prescott, 174, 278

  Prickard, 202

  Prize, xvii f., 7, 11, 14 f., 16, 24, 213-20, 268 f.

  Proagon, 204-6

  Procession, 20, 121-23, 132, 197, 224

  Prologue, 35, 40, 49, 55 f., 206, 208-10, 252, 298-304

  Properties, 65, 106, 226, 228

  Proscenium, 58-60, 66, 68-71, 76, 80-87, 91 f., 97-101, 103-9,
        111-14, 228, 235-39, 241, 244, 285, 287 f., 291 f.

  πρόθυρον. _See_ Porch

  Psychology, xiv, xviii, 4, 296

  Puchstein, 79, 92


  Ramps, 104

  Recognition (ἀναγνώρισις), 17

  Rees, 53, 172, 187, 192

  Reisch, 3, 10, 14, 22, 30 f., 59, 319

  Reversal of situation (περιπέτεια), 17

  Richter, 150

  Ridgeway, 6 f., 12, 18-21, 31, 33-35, 236

  Robert, 101

  Rogers, 121, 214 f.

  Ruppel, 273


  Satyric drama (satyr-play), 2, 9, 22-32, 33 f., 125-27, 136, 198, 203
        f., 322

  Satyrs, 2, 10 f., 13, 16, 22 f., 24-32, 126, 136, 154, 162

  _Scaena._ _See_ σκηνή

  Scene-building. _See_ σκηνή

  Scene of action, 206-8, 226-31, 233-36, 258, 300;
    changed, 206, 235, 247 f., 250 f.

  Scenery, xii, 66, 236, 244, 247 f., 260.
    _See_ πίνακες

  Schmid, 3

  Scott, 254

  Seneca, ix, xx, 141, 187

  Sheppard, 276

  Shorey, 30

  Sicyon, 11-15, 21, 35, 80, 104, 108

  σῖγμα, 72

  Silence, 42, 91, 163, 165, 169, 173 f., 176 f., 186 f., 230, 232

  Sileni, 16, 21 f., 24, 26, 29, 32, 121 f., 135, 162

  Simonides, 11

  σκηνή (_scaena_; scene-building), 57 f., 66-70, 72, 77 f., 87, 93-98,
        102-9, 111, 113, 226, 228, 231, 233, 235-37, 244, 284 f.,
        287-89, 291;
    ἐπὶ (ἀπὸ) σκηνῆς, 93-98;
    _in scaena_, 77;
    _scaenae frons_, 76, 83 f.

  σκηνικός, 61, 77 f., 96 f.

  Soliloquy, 240, 258, 286, 299-309, 311 f.

  Solon, 9, 17-19

  Sophocles:
    third actor, 53, 167, 183;
    ceased acting, 169;
    use of chorus, 144;
    was refused a chorus, 273;
    scenery, 66, 236;
    μηχανή, 296;
    soliloquies, 305;
    irony, 313;
    imitated Euripides, 302;
    iambic resolutions, 172;
    productivity, 335;
    victories, 272 f., 325

  Spectacle (ὄψις), xi f., xvi

  Spingarn, xi-xiii, xv

  Stage, xx, 60, 72-88, 91-100, 102 f., 111 f., 114-17, 130, 149.
    _See_ σκηνή and Logium

  Stasima. _See_ Odes

  Stephenson, 158

  Suicide, 129-32, 159, 244

  Susarion, 38, 47 f., 52 f.

  Synchoregi, 271

  Syzygy, 41, 43


  Tanner, 336

  Technique, ix f., xiv f., xvii, 10, 128 f., 173-76, 182, 191 f., 209
        f., 229, 232, 239 f., 299 f., 310

  Terence, xx, 194 f., 234, 304, 307, 309-11, 316, 331

  Tetralogy (trilogy), 23 f., 133 f., 198 f., 203 f., 257 f., 265 f.,
        300, 322 f., 332, 334

  Theater (as a structure), 1, 57-117
    Technical terms, 57-61
    Greek, 76 f., 80;
      Roman, 75-77, 80;
      Hellenistic, 70 f., 76, 80, 82-87, 97, 100, 110 f.;
      Graeco-Roman, 80, 82-87, 110-14
    Athens, 62-75;
      site, 62 f., 208, 233 f.;
      size, 121, 221, 224, 312;
      in market-place, 63, 105;
      orchestra of _ca._ 499 B.C., 63, 65 f., 104, 226-28, 230;
      _ca._ 465 B.C., 66, 68, 228, 231 f., 285, 289;
      _ca._ 430 B.C., 67 f., 70, 235, 287, 289;
      Lycurgus, 68-70, 96, 103;
      Hellenistic, 70 f.;
      Nero, 72-74, 81, 98-101, 117;
      Phaedrus, 72, 74 f., 98
    Delos, 70 f., 80, 82 f., 107 f.;
      Delphi, 108, 116;
      Epidaurus, 70 f., 80, 104;
      Ephesus, 82 f., 109, 111-13, 116;
      Eretria, 70 f., 80, 82, 84, 104-7, 288;
      Megalopolis, 80, 108;
      Mitylene, 80 f., 85;
      Oropus, 80, 82, 84, 108-11, 113;
      Patara, 82-84;
      Pergamum, 80, 110 f., 116;
      Priene, 82 f., 86, 110 f., 113 f., 116;
      Sicyon, 80, 104, 108;
      Termessus, 82-85, 110 f.;
      Thoricus, 69, 80, 103 f., 227
    Vitruvius on, 75-87, 90, 92, 97;
      Pollux on, 78, 94, 98-100, 106;
      Plutarch, 101-3;
      Pompey’s, 80 f., 85;
      and fifth-century plays, 87-92;
      ἀναβαίνω, καταβαίνω, 91 f., 102 f.;
      and chorus, 92 f.;
      ἐπὶ τῆς σκηνῆς, 93-98;
      θυμελικός, σκηνικός, 95-97

  θέατρον, 60

  Themes, 7 f., 10, 13, 20 f., 123-27, 198 f., 279, 315

  Theologium, 59 f., 111

  Thespis:
    not mentioned in _Poetics_, 6;
    and Solon, 9, 17-19;
    place as tragic poet, 9, 12, 33;
    borrowings, 16;
    innovations, 16, 19 f.;
    first actor, 16-19, 163;
    impersonation, 16-18;
    his “grand step,” 19 f.;
    his wagon, 19 f.;
    non-Dionysiac themes, 20 f.;
    genuineness of extant titles, 20 f.;
    victor in first Athenian contest, 21;
    dramas somewhat like satyr-plays, 23;
    prologues, 55 f., 298-300

  Thirlwall, 313, 316

  Throop, 17

  Thymele, 18, 57, 61, 73, 79, 95-97, 104

  θυμελικός, 61, 77 f., 81, 95-97

  θυρώματα, 107, 109, 111

  Tomb ceremonies, 6, 12, 33-35

  τραγικοὶ χοροί, 11 f., 15

  τραγῳδία, 2, 8, 13-15, 21, 27 f.

  τραγῳδοί, 11, 13, 15 f., 21

  Tragedy:
    wagons in, 19 f.;
    at City Dionysia, 21;
    influence on comedy, 49 f., 53 f., 127, 146;
    influenced by epic, 17, 257, 263;
    themes, 123-25;
    chorus of, 135 f., 148-50, 162;
    early form, 162 f.;
    act divisions, 192 f.

  Trochaic tetrameter. _See_ Meter

  Tyche, 277


  Unities, 201 f., 246-67, 277, 279, 295, 300


  Vases:
    satyrs on, 16, 22-32;
    sileni on, 22, 24, 26, 29, 32;
    satyr-plays on, 25-27, 29-32;
    comus on, 38, 46;
    wagon-ship on, 20

  Verrall, 5, 147, 151, 253

  Vestibule. _See_ Porch

  Victories, 272 f., 324 f.

  Victors’-Lists, 324-30

  Violence, 127-32, 158-60, 229, 241, 247, 284 f.


  Wagons, 19 f., 121 f.

  Welcker, 1-3, 13

  Wernicke, 31

  Wieseler, 79 f.

  Wilamowitz-Möllendorff, von, 8, 11, 19, 48, 88, 189

  Wilhelm, 319, 328

  Women, 4, 42, 121, 180 f., 191, 277-83


  Year spirit, 6




*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 69095 ***