The Greek theater and its drama

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 developm