IV. The Mounting of a Tragedy

Scenery was painted on canvas or boards and attached to the front of the buildings. In satyric drama it appears to have varied little—a wild district with trees, rocks, and a cave. Tragedy generally employed a temple or palace-front, though even in the extant thirty-two there are exceptions—the rock of Prometheus, the tent of Ajax, the cave of Philoctetes, and so forth. In a façade there were three doors, corresponding to the three permanent doors in the buildings; when a cave or tent was depicted, its opening was in front of the central door. Statues were placed before the temple or palace—those of the deities, for instance, in the Agamemnon to whom the Herald utters his magnificent address. Individuality would be given to a temple by the statue of a particular god. Scene-painting was probably not very artistic or scrupulous of details. We never read any praise of splendid theatrical scenery such as is familiar to-day; and clever lighting effects were of course out of the question when all was performed in the daylight. Here and there the persons allude to the landscape, as in Sophocles’ Electra, where the aged attendant of Orestes points out to the prince striking features of the Argolid plain. Such things were mostly left to the imagination of the audience, like the forest of Arden and the squares of Verona or Venice in Shakespeare. Undoubtedly, a Greek tragedy provided a beautiful spectacle, but this resulted from the costumes, poses, and grouping of actors and chorus.

Change of scene was rarely needed in tragedy; the peculiar arrangements of comedy do not concern us. Only two extant tragedies need it. In the Eumenides of Æschylus the change from the temple of Apollo at Delphi to Athena’s temple in Athens is vital to the plot but need not have caused much trouble; probably convention was satisfied by changing the statue. In Ajax the scene shifts from that hero’s tent to a deserted part of the sea-shore; no doubt the tent was simply removed. One reason against change of scene was the continuous presence of the chorus; when the playwright found he must shift his locality the chorus were compelled to retire and reappear. We read of a permanent appliance by which scenery could be altered; there is, however, no evidence that it was known in the great age of Athenian drama. This consisted of the periacti (περίακτοι). At each end of the scene stood wooden triangular prisms standing on their ends and revolving in sockets, so arranged that one of the narrow oblong sides continued the picture. A different subject was painted on each side. A twist given to either marked a change of place; the alteration of one periactus meant a change of locality within the same region, while the alteration of both meant a complete change of district. Thus, had this contrivance been used in the fifth century, one periactus would have been moved in the Ajax, both in the Eumenides. Another and stranger use of this contrivance is mentioned by Pollux: “it introduces sea-gods and everything which is too heavy for the machine”. We shall return to this when we come to the “eccyclema” and the “machine”. No curtain is known for the classical age.

Stage-properties were few and for the most part simple. Much the most important was the tomb of some great person; that of Darius in the Persæ, and of Agamemnon in the Choephorœ, are fundamental to the plot, and there are many other examples. Statues have already been mentioned. The spaciousness of the orchestra made it easy to introduce chariots and horses, as in Agamemnon, Euripides’ Electra and Iphigenia at Aulis.

Various contrivances were employed to permit the appearance of actors in circumstances where they could not simply enter the orchestra or logeion. We need not dwell upon certain quaint machinery which it is fairly certain was not used in the great age—“Charon’s steps,” by which ghosts ascended, the “anapiesma” which brought up river-gods and Furies, the “stropheion” which showed heroes in heaven and violent deaths, the “hemicyclion” by which the spectators were given a view of remote cities or of men swimming, the “bronteion,” or thunder machine, consisting of a sheet of metal and sacks of stones to throw thereon, the “ceraunoscopeion” or lightning machine, a black plank with a flash painted upon it, which was shot across the stage. In the fifth century the theatrical contrivances amounted to four—the distegia, the theologeion, the “machine,” and the eccyclema.

The distegia was employed when human beings showed themselves above the level of the “stage,” for example on a roof or cliff. Such appearances are not common—the watchman (Agamemnon), Antigone and her nurse (Phœnissæ), Orestes and Pylades (Orestes), Evadne (Euripidean Supplices), are all the occasions in existing tragedy; comedy supplies a few more. Probably it was “a projecting balcony or upper story, which might be introduced when required”; the word appears to mean “second story”. The arrangement would then correspond closely to the gallery used at the back of the Elizabethan stage.

Similar to this was the “theologeion” (“speaking-place for gods”), on which gods or deified heroes appeared when they were not to be shown descending through the air. The arrangement seems to have been a platform in the upper part of the scenery. Whether it was fixed there and the actors entered through an opening to take their place, or whether it was used like the eccyclema (see below), is not clear.

We hear much more of the “machine” (μηχανή) by which actors descended as from Heaven or ascended. It was a crane from which cords were attached to the actor’s body; a stage-hand hauled the actor up or down by a winch. There are a good many instances of its use. The apparition of Thetis at the close of Andromache exemplifies the most customary happening. But sometimes the machine had to carry a greater burden; both the Dioscuri appear in Euripides’ Electra, both Iris and Frenzy in Hercules Furens. Æschylus no doubt sent Oceanus on his four-legged bird by this route; possibly Medea, and the chariot containing her sons’ bodies, were also suspended by it; and it has even been thought that the chorus of Prometheus Vinctus and their “winged chariot” enter in this way. But the last suggestion is very questionable. The weight would be excessive, and probably the car is supposed to be left outside, or may have been painted on a periactus. Aristophanes gets excellent fooling out of the machine. The celebrated basket in which Socrates “walks the air and contemplates the sun” is attached to it; and in the Peace there is a delightful parody of Bellerophon’s ascent to Heaven.

Far more puzzling is the eccyclema. This celebrated device was employed to reveal to the spectators events which had just taken place “within”. After the murders in the Agamemnon the palace doors are opened and Clytæmnestra is shown standing axe in hand over the corpses of Cassandra and the king. There are a good many instances of precisely the same type: the scene exhibited is a small tableau. But there are dissimilar examples which shall be discussed later. The construction of this machine is usually described thus. Inside the middle door was a small oblong platform on wheels, upon which the tableau was arranged; then the platform was thrust out upon the stage and in a few minutes drawn back again. Two quite different objections have been raised to this account.

First, it seems ridiculous to reveal what is supposed to be inside a building—not to come out, be it observed, but to stay inside—by thrusting forth one or two people on a species of dray. But we must remember the enormous and rightful influence of convention. If Greek audiences wished to see such tableaux and were convinced that by no other means could they be shown, then it was their business to accept the eccyclema; that in such circumstances they would accept and soon fail even to notice it, is proved by the whole history of art. We see nothing ludicrous in the spectacle of a man telling his deepest secrets in a study one wall of which is replaced by a vast assembly of eavesdroppers. The Elizabethan theatre accepted precisely this contrivance of the eccyclema. In our texts of Henry VI (Pt. II, Act III, Sc. ii.) we read this stage-direction: “The folding-doors of an inner chamber are thrown open, and Gloucester is discovered dead in his bed: Warwick and others standing by it”. Instead of all this, the old direction merely says: “Bed put forth”. In another early drama we find the amusing instruction: “Enter So-and-So in bed”. The æsthetic objection to the eccyclema has no force whatever.

The other objection rests on the fact that a more elaborate tableau is sometimes indicated than could be accommodated on so narrow a platform. The most serious example is provided by the Eumenides, where we are to imagine upon the eccyclema an altar, Orestes kneeling by it, Apollo and Hermes standing beside him, and the whole chorus of Furies sleeping around them. In Aristophanes’ Clouds the interior of Socrates’ school is exhibited, with pupils at work amid lecture-room appliances. A brilliant scene of the same poet’s Acharnians depicts Dicæopolis’ interview with Euripides, who is too busy to come downstairs from his study-attic, but consents to be “wheeled out”. Thus the eccyclema shows him outside and also aloft: how could this be represented on the dray? Perhaps by elevating poet and furniture upon posts? Even this is not inconceivable. Nor is it impossible that the Furies of the Eumenides were arranged on two eccyclemata of their own, thrust out of the side doors, while Orestes and the gods were upon the central platform. For Pollux does say that there were three.

Other views of this machine have been offered, which explain the “wheeling” of which we read as the working of wheeled mechanism, such as a winch. Some would have it that the scenery opens, whether doors are flung wide, or the canvas is rolled back like curtains. In this way a considerable area behind the scenes could be revealed. This is, of course, infinitely more in accordance with modern ideas. But it will not fit all the available evidence, which talks of “wheeling in” and “wheeling out,” “Roll this unhappy man within” and the like. Moreover, in such a simple operation there would be nothing for Aristophanes to parody. A third explanation is that a considerable part of the back scene was cut out and replaced so as to swing on a perpendicular axis. Projecting from this at the back was a small platform, upon which the tableau was grouped; this oblong portion was twisted round so that the platform pointed towards the spectators. It resembled, in fact, that contrivance in the modern Japanese theatre by which one scene is prepared while the preceding action takes place, and is swung into position when needed. A grave objection to this is that some of the groups—those in Eumenides and Acharnians—would be too large for such a contrivance. The best view seems to be the traditional, to which the evidence strongly points. As for the large scenes so displayed, various tolerable explanations may be found. Only one or two Furies and Socratic novices may have appeared on the platform, and the others may have simply walked in through the right and left doors, or even been shown on subsidiary platforms at those entrances.

All other appurtenances of a performance were provided by the choregus—such things as chariots and animals, and, far the most important, costumes of chorus and actors. All dramatic performers, both actors and chorus in tragedy, comedy, and satyric drama alike, wore disguise throughout the whole history of the ancient theatre. The reason in the first place was that masks or some kind of facial disguise—in Thespis’ time the face was anointed with lees of wine—was a feature of Dionysiac worship. The dressing of a tragic chorus was generally a simple matter. It often represented a company of people from the district with no special characteristics. The dress was therefore the usual dress of Greek men or women, with a special shoe, the crēpis (κρηπίς), said to have been introduced by Sophocles. There were also obvious indications of circumstances; old men wore beards and carried staves; suppliants bore olive-branches twined with wool. The occasional choruses of peculiar character were of course equipped specially. In Euripides’ Bacchæ they were dressed in fawn-skins and carried timbrels. When Æschylus brought out his Eumenides he designed the Furies’ costume himself; their terrible masks and the snakes entwined in their hair are said to have terrified the spectators and produced most untoward effects on the more susceptible. The equipment of satyric choristers was very different. They were always dressed as satyrs or goat-men. A tight garment, representing the naked flesh, covered their bodies. Their masks were surmounted by horns, their feet were shod in hoof-shaped shoes, and round their middle they wore a woollen girdle like goatskin to which were attached the phallus and a tail, which, however, after about 400 B.C., resembled the tail of a horse, not a goat, the satyr-type being superseded by the Silenus-type. Satyric actors seem to have worn much the same costume as the tragic, save that the dress of Silenus represented the hides of animals.

The dress of tragic actors was mostly the invention of Æschylus and showed little change throughout ancient times. Everything was done to make the actor’s appearance as stately as possible. His robes were heavy, sweeping, and of brilliant colours. His size was increased by various devices. The boot, the famous cothurnus (κόθορνος) or buskin, had an immensely thick sole; the limbs were padded and the height was further increased by an oncus (ὄγκος) or projection of the mask above the forehead. The mask itself was modelled and painted to correspond with the character: a tyrant’s mask wore a frown, that of a suppliant a distorted look of misery, and so forth. Increased power was given to the voice by a large orifice at the mouth. Identity was indicated wherever possible by some obvious mark: Apollo was known by his bow, Heracles by his lion’s skin and club, kings by crowns and sceptres. It was a joke against Euripides that his heroes so often entered in the rags of beggary.

Such a cumbersome equipment would be fatal to acting as we understand it. The mask at once destroys all chance of that facial play which we deem essential; the padded limbs, heavy garments, and gigantic boots made all life-like motion and élan impossible. This is no doubt one great reason why the playwrights rarely exhibit exciting physical action. Even so, the ludicrous sometimes occurred. Æschines when acting Œnomaus fell and had to be helped up by the chorus-trainer. A natural supposition is that these impedimenta date not from Æschylus but from the period of vulgar elaboration. Certainly, it is not easy to imagine how such scenes as the delirium of Orestes, or the departure of Pentheus in the Bacchæ, could have been reasonably carried out—so to say—on stilts; indeed the whole spirit of such plays as Orestes, Ion, and Iphigenia at Aulis seems utterly alien to such equipment. But it is hard to set aside the voice of all the evidence. The best way would be to surmise that Euripides sometimes dispensed with buskins and the rest—though we should surely expect some allusion to so remarkable a change—for noble as is the work of his predecessors, it could be so performed without too absurd an effect. If Garrick’s audience did not object to his playing Macbeth in a periwig and knee-breeches, it is likely enough that Athens was content with such a Clytæmnestra as Pollux would have us imagine.