ἐκ κυμάτων γὰρ αὖθις αὖ γαλήν’ ὁρῶ
ἐκ κυμάτων γὰρ αὖθις αὖ γαλήν’ ὁρῶ
ἐκ κυμάτων γὰρ αὖθις αὖ γαλήν’ ὁρῶ
ἐκ κυμάτων γὰρ αὖθις αὖ γαλήν’ ὁρῶ
“after the billows once more I see a calm”. The unlucky player instead of saying γαλήν’ said γαλῆν, “once more do I see a weasel coming out of the waves”. The theatre burst into laughter, for correct pronunciation was far more insisted upon than in the English theatre of to-day.[191]The status of the acting profession rose steadily as time went on. At first the poet acted as protagonist, but this practice was dropped by Sophocles, owing to the weakness of his voice. From that time acting was free to develop as a separate profession. In the middleof the fifth century a prize for acting was instituted, and the actor’s name began to be added in the official records of victories. In the fourth century the importance of the player increased still more. We have seen that he was so vital to the success of a playwright that for fairness’ sake the three protagonists each acted in a single tragedy of each poet. We often hear of brilliant acting successes. In the fourth century an Actors’ Guild was formed at Athens and continued in existence for centuries. Its object was to protect the remarkable privileges held by the “artists of Dionysus”. They were looked upon as great servants of religion, and were not only in high social esteem but possessed definite privileges, especially the right of safe-conduct through hostile states and exemption from military service. About the beginning of the third century before Christ the Amphictyonic Council, at the instance of the Guild itself, renewed a decree, the terms of which have fortunately been preserved,[192]affirming the immunity of person and property granted to the Athenian actors.
The chorus, we have seen, was originally the only celebrant of the Dionysiac festival. As the importance of the actors increased it became less and less vital to the performance. Its numbers, its connexion with the plot, and the length and relevance of its songs, all steadily diminished.
Originally there were fifty choristers, but we learn that early in the fifth century there were only twelve, and it is suggested that this change was due to the introduction of tetralogies—the fifty choreutæ being divided as equally as possible between the four dramas. Sophocles, it is said, raised the number to fifteen. This account is doubtful. It is not in the nature of things likely that Æschylus (if it was he) caused or approved such an immense drop in numbers, from fifty to twelve: for the notion that the original chorus was split up into four is frivolous. Is it not obvious that a poet wouldemploy the same choristers for each play of his tetralogy? Again, that Sophocles should chafe at Æschylus’ twelve singers and alter the number, and that by a mere trifle of three, is quite unlikely. There is, moreover, strong evidence that the elder poet used fifty choreutæ, at any rate in his earlier time. TheSuppliceshas for chorus the daughters of Danaus, and their exact number, fifty, was a familiardatumof the legend. The natural view is that Æschylus began with fifty, that Sophocles ended with fifteen, and that between these two points the number gradually sank. Whether the choreutæ after the fifth century became still fewer is not clearly known; there is some evidence that at times they were only seven.
Next, the dramatic value of the chorus steadily went down. In our earliest tragedy, the ÆschyleanSupplices, the chorus of Danaids is absolutely vital; they are the chief, almost the sole, interest. In other works of the same poet their importance is certainly less, but still very great; everywhere they are deeply interested in the fate of the chief persons—Xerxes, Eteocles, Prometheus, Agamemnon, Orestes; the chorus of theEumenidesis even more closely attached to the plot. In Sophocles a certain change is to be felt. The connexion between chorus and plot is of much the same quality as in the five plays just mentioned, but the emotional tie and (still more) the tie of self-interest are weaker. The chorus of Greek seamen inPhiloctetesare (in the abstract) as deeply concerned in the issue as the Oceanids inPrometheus, but most readers would probably agree that they show it less; we can “think away” the chorus more easily from thePhiloctetes. In all the other six Sophoclean dramas the interest of the chorus in the action is about the same as in thePhiloctetes—strong but scarcely vital. Euripides’ work shows more variety.Alcestis,Heracleidæ,Hecuba,Ion,Troades,Iphigenia in Tauris,Helen, andRhesusall possess choruses which areprima-facieSophoclean in this regard, though their language tends to show less personal concern. In otherdramas,Medea,Hippolytus,Andromache,Electra,Phœnissæ,Orestes,Iphigenia at Aulis, the chorus is simply a company of spectators. Thirdly, in two plays,SupplicesandBacchæ, the importance of the chorus is thoroughly Æschylean. In Euripides, then, there is found on the whole a weakening in the dramatic value of the chorus: in some instances the singers are little more than random visitors. In the fourth century Aristotle protests against this: “the chorus too should be regarded as one of the actors; it should be an integral part of the whole, and share in the action, in the manner not of Euripides but of Sophocles”.[193]
A precisely similar change operated in the length of the ode. The lyrics of Æschylus’Supplicesform more than half the work, those ofOrestesonly one-ninth. Even at the end of Æschylus’ career we find in theAgamemnonodes magnificent, elaborate, and lengthy. Sophocles composed shorter songs which were still closely germane to the plot. But in Euripides there frequently occur lyrics whose connexion with the plot is slight, sometimes difficult to make out. Agathon carried this still further: his odes are mere interludes, quite outside the plot.[194]
The fifteen choristers usually entered through theparodos, marching like soldiers.[195]Drawn up in ranks upon the orchestra, they followed the action with their backs to the audience but faced about when they sang. Their work fell into two parts, the odes sung between the episodes, and participation in the episodes. The entrance-song was called theparodosor “entrance,” and was written in anapæstic rhythm, suitable for marching. If so, it was chanted in recitative; lyrics were sung. Songs between episodes were calledstasima. This means “stationary songs,” not because the singers stood still but because they had taken up their stationin the orchestra. As they left at the end they sang anexodosor “exit” in anapæsts. Besides these, there were occasionalhyporchemes(ὑπορχήματα, “dances”), short, lively songs expressing sudden joy. All lyrics were rendered by both song and dance. Singing was generally executed by all the choreutæ, but some passages were divided between them. The most frequent division was into two semi-choruses (ἡμιχόρια), but now and then individuals sang a few words. Incidental iambic lines were spoken by one person, and the short anapæstic system which at the end of the lyric often announces the approach of an actor was no doubt assigned to thecoryphæus, or chorus-leader alone. Dancing was also an essential feature, but both Greeks and Romans meant more by dancing than do we, or than we did before the rise of “Salome” performances. It was in fact a mimetic display, giving by the rhythmic manipulation of all the limbs an imitation of the emotions expressed, or the events described, by the song. The whole company, moreover, went through certain evolutions over the surface of the orchestra. When they sang thestrophe[196]they moved in one direction, back again for theantistrophe,[196]and perhaps stood still when there was anepode.[196]But nothing is known as to details here. The centre of all the dancing was the coryphæus (κορυφαῖος, “top man”), the leader of the chorus; when two semi-choruses acted separately each had its leader. As was natural, choric dancing flourished mightily in the early days, and went down with lyrical performance in general. Thus Phrynichus congratulated himself on having devised “as many figures of the dance as are the billows on the sea under a dread night of storm”. Æschylus too was a brilliant ballet-master. But Plato, the comic playwright, at the end of the same century grumbles[197]amusingly:—
There was something to watch when the dancing was good,But now there’s no acting to mention—Just a paralysed row of inflexible singers,Who howl as they stand at attention.
There was something to watch when the dancing was good,But now there’s no acting to mention—Just a paralysed row of inflexible singers,Who howl as they stand at attention.
There was something to watch when the dancing was good,But now there’s no acting to mention—Just a paralysed row of inflexible singers,Who howl as they stand at attention.
There was something to watch when the dancing was good,
But now there’s no acting to mention—
Just a paralysed row of inflexible singers,
Who howl as they stand at attention.
During the best period of the chorus its mimetic dancing must have been a wonderful spectacle. We hear of highly-skilled performers who could reproduce action so that the audience followed every detail. They seem to have “accompanied” some portions of the episodes in this manner; and that fact may account for a rather curious feature in theIon. The messenger gives a remarkably detailed description of the designs upon the embroideries wherewith Ion roofed his great banqueting-marquee—the constellations and “Dawn pursuing the stars” are all described. Possibly this was written for the sake of an unusually brilliant mimetic evolution by groups of choreutæ.
The chorus had other duties during the episodes. As a body they normally showed themselves interested spectators; thus the chorus ofOrestesenter in order to inquire of Electra concerning her sick brother. Not infrequently they do more, taking an actual share in events. At the close ofAgamemnonthe Argive elders are at point to do battle with Ægisthus and his henchmen; inAlcestisthey join the funeral procession; at other times they aid the persons of the play, not only by misleading enemies (Choephorœ) or directing friends (Œdipus Tyrannus) but by keeping watch (Orestes). Further, the coryphæus almost always delivers two or three lines at the end of every long speech, save when it ends a scene. These little interpolations are invariably obvious and feeble. After Hermione’s tirade against women the coryphæus comments thus: “Too freely hast thou indulged thy tongue against thy sex. It is pardonable in thee, but still women should gloss over the weaknesses of women.” Anyone who has listened to the delivery of some splendid passage in Shakespeare, an outburst of Lear or Mercutio’s Queen Mab speech, will remember how the applause whichfollows it drowns the next speaker’s opening lines. Some pause is needed. This is provided in Greek tragedy by the insertion of a line or two which will not be missed if inaudible.
The satyric chorus diverged little from the tragic in the points discussed under this section. It had, however, a special type of dance called the “Sikinnis”. “One of the postures used ... was called the owl, and is variously explained by the old grammarians as having consisted in shading the eyes with the hands, or in turning the head to and fro like an owl.”[198]
The time of the Dionysiac festivals, especially the great Dionysia, was a holiday for all Athens, and the centre of enjoyment was the show of tragedies and comedies. At sunrise the theatre was filled with a huge throng prepared to sit packed together for hours facing the sun with no interval for a meal or for exercise. It is important to remember that in Athens that incalculable play-goer, “the average man,” did really enjoy and appreciate first-class dramatic work.
There were a few rows of special seats for officials and persons otherwise honoured by the State. All the rest of the space, save for the separation of men and women, and the possibility that eachcerciswas allotted to a distinct tribe, was open to all without distinction of rank or means. The official seats were in the front rows, and the first row of all consisted of sixty-seven marble thrones, most of which are still preservedin situ. Of these sixty-seven, fifty belonged—as the inscriptions show—to ecclesiastics, and the famous middle throne—the best and most conspicuous[199]place in the theatre—was occupied by the priest of Dionysus of Eleutheræ.Besides priests, the archons, the generals, and the ten judges had special places, also benefactors of the State or their descendants, and the sons of men who had fallen in battle. Ambassadors from abroad, too, received this compliment of προεδρία (“foremost seat”).
Behind the dignified front circle of thrones rose tier after tier of stone benches, all alike and not marked off into separate seats, so that the audience must usually have been crowded. They were also cramped, for the height of each seat was but fifteen inches.[200]Spectators brought with them any cushions they needed. Admission to the theatre was allowed in the first instance to any Athenian citizen. In spite of the indecency which was a normal[201]feature of the Old Comedy, there is no doubt that women and boys were present at the shows both of tragedy and comedy. Slaves and foreigners also were admitted, obtaining admission, like the boys and women, through citizens. Foreigners, except the distinguished persons to whomproedriawas granted, seem to have been confined to the extreme right and leftcercides, next to theparodoi. All the seating which has been described dates from the time of the orator Lycurgus[202]in the fourth century; during the fifth Athens was content with wooden benches, calledicria(ἴκρια, “planks”).
Admission was at first free, but the drama was so popular that the rush for seats caused much confusion; it is said that the more sedulous would secure places the night before. In the fifth century the custom arose of charging for admission, and making every one book in advance, save those dignitaries whose places were reserved. The price for one day was two obols (about threepence in weight, but of much greater purchasingpower). At the end of that century this sum was paid by the State to any citizen who claimed it. The money allotted for this purpose was called the “theoric” fund (τὸ θεωρικόν, “money for the shows”), of which we hear so much in the speeches of Demosthenes. By his time the system had grown to a serious danger. Payments were made, not only for the original purpose, but for all the numerous festivals, and a law was actually passed that anyone who proposed to apply the fund in any other way should be put to death. Demosthenes represents the theoric fund and the Athenian affection for it as preventing Athens from supplying sufficient forces to check the growing menace from Philip of Macedonia. On paying in his two obols the spectator received a ticket of lead. The sums taken were appropriated by the lessee orarchitectonwho in consideration thereof kept the theatre in repair.
As the auditorium was filled with many thousands of lively Southerners, who had to sit crammed together from sunrise till late in the day with no intermission, the question of good order might seem to have been a hopeless difficulty. It was not so. For, first, the occasion was religious, and to use blows in the theatre was a capital crime. Next, stewards (ῥαβδοφόροι, “rod-bearers”) were at hand to keep order among the choristers, who were numerous, seeing that each dithyrambic chorus consisted of fifty men. Finally, a good deal of exuberant behaviour was allowed. Serious disturbance occasionally happened: the high-spirited Alcibiades once had a bout at fisticuffs with a rival choregus, and the occasion of Demosthenes’ speech against Meidias was the blow which Meidias dealt the orator when the latter was choregus.
Though an Athenian audience had no objection, when comedy was played, to scenes which we should have supposed likely to strike them as blasphemous, they bitterly objected to any breach of orthodoxy in tragic drama. Æschylus once narrowly escaped death because it was thought that a passage in his play constituteda revelation of the mysteries. Euripides,[203]too, incurred great trouble owing to the opening lines ofMelanippe the Wise. Approval and dislike were freely expressed. If the spectators admired a passage, shouts and clapping showed it: at times they would “encore” a speech or song with the exclamation αὖθις (“again”). Still more often do we hear of their proneness to “damn” a bad play. Hissing[204]was common, and there was a special custom at Athens of kicking with the heels upon the benches to express disapproval—a method which must have been effective in the time of wooden seats. Playwrights were known to take vigorous means to win favour. That distinguished writer of New Comedy, Philemon, is said to have defeated Menander himself by securing a large attendance of supporters to applaud his work, and it is certain that writers of the Old Comedy frequently directed their actors to throw nuts and similar offerings among the audience. In thePeaceof Aristophanes barley was thus distributed. The spectators sometimes replied in kind. Bad performers were pelted with fruit, at any rate in the country, and even stones were used in extreme cases. The celebrated Æschines, during his career as a strolling tritagonist, was nearly stoned to death by his public.[205]But the fruit was generally used in the city itself for another purpose. Aristotle illustrates a detail of psychology by pointing to the fact that “in the theatre people who eat dessert do so with most abandon when the performers are bad”.[206]