Greece and the Ægean Islands

by Philip Sanford Marden

There are two favorite ways whereby those leaving the Acropolis are wont to descend to the modern city. One lies around to the right as you leave the gates, passing between the Acropolis and Mars Hill to the north side of the former, where steps will be found leading down to the old quarter and thence past Shoe Lane to Hermes Street and home. The other passes to the south of the Acropolis along its southerly slopes, finally emerging through an iron gate at the eastern end, whence a street leads directly homeward, rather cleaner and sweeter than the other route but hardly as picturesque. Since, however, this way leads to some of the other notable remains of classic Athens, for the present let us take it.

Immediately on leaving the avenue in front of the gates of the Acropolis, one finds a path leading eastward directly behind and above the Odeon of Herodes Atticus, which is made conspicuous in the landscape by the lofty stone arches remaining at its front. These arches are blackened and bear every ear-mark of the later Roman epoch. Moreover they strike the beholder as rather unstable, as if some day they might fall unless removed. But their loss would be a pity, nevertheless, for they certainly present a striking and agreeable feature to the sight despite their lack of harmony with the received ideas of pure Greek architecture. It hardly repays one to descend to the pit of this commodious theatre, or rather concert hall, since one gets a very accurate idea of it from above looking down into its orchestra over the tiers of grass-grown seats. For more detailed inspection of ancient theatrical structures, the Dionysiac theatre farther along our path is decidedly more worth while, besides being much more ancient and more interesting by association.

On the way thereto are passed several remnants of a long “stoa,” or portico, called that of Eumenes, curiously intermingled with brick relics of the Turkish times, and the non-archæological visitor will hardly care to concern himself long with either. But he will doubtless be interested to turn aside from the path and clamber up to the base of the steeper rock to inspect the damp and dripping cave where once was an important shrine of Asklepios, with the usual “sacred spring” still flowing, and still surrounded with remains of the customary porticoes, in which the faithful in need of healing once reposed themselves by night, awaiting the cure which the vision of the god might be hoped to bestow. The cave is now a Catholic shrine, with a picture of its particular saint and an oil lamp burning before it. It is dank and dismal, and for one to remain there long would doubtless necessitate the services of Asklepios himself, or of some skillful modern disciple of his healing art—of which, by the way, Athens can boast not a few. The Greek seems to take naturally to the practice of medicine, and some of the physicians, even in remote country districts, are said to possess unusual talent.

Not far below the shrine lies the theatre of Dionysus, scooped out of the hillside as are most Greek theatres, with a paved, semi-circular “orchestra,” or dancing place, at its foot. Much of the original seating capacity is concealed by the overgrowth of grass, so that one is likely greatly to underestimate its former size. Once the seats rose far up toward the precinct of Asklepios, and the path that to-day traverses the slope passes through what was once the upper portion of the amphitheatre. It is only in the lower portions that the stones still remain in a fair state of preservation and serve to show us the manner of theatre that the Athenians knew—the same in which the earlier generations saw for the first time the tragedies of that famous trio of playwrights, Æschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. This theatre has undergone manifold changes since its first construction, as one will discover from his archæological books. It is idle for us here to seek to recall the successive alterations which changed the present theatre from that which the ancients actually saw, or to point out the traces of each transformation that now remain, to show that the “orchestra” was once a complete circle and lay much farther back. It will, however, be found interesting enough to clamber down over the tiers of seats to the bottom and inspect at leisure the carved chairs once allotted to various dignitaries, and bearing to this day the names of the officers who used them. Particularly fine is the chief seat of all, the carved chair of the high priest of Dionysus, in the very centre of the row, with its bas-relief of fighting cocks on the chair-arms still plainly to be seen. It is well to remember, however, that most of what the visitor sees is of a rather recent period as compared with other Athenian monuments, for it is stated that very little of the present visible theatre is of earlier date than the third century B.C., while much is of even a more recent time and is the work of the Romans. This is true, especially, of the conspicuous carved screen that runs along behind the orchestra space, and which may have supported the stage—if there was a stage at all. The paved orchestra will also strike one as unusual, contrasting with the greensward to be seen in other similar structures, such as the theatre at Epidaurus.

The vexed question of the use of any elevated stage in Greek theatres so divides the skilled archæologists into warring camps even to-day that it ill becomes an amateur in the field to advance any opinion at all, one way or the other, upon the subject. There are eminent authorities who maintain that the use of a raised stage in such a theatre was utterly unknown by the ancients, and that any such development can only have come in comparatively modern times, under Roman auspices. Others insist, and with equal positiveness, that some sort of a stage was used by the more ancient Greeks. The arguments pro and con have waxed warm for several years, without convincing either side of its error. It is safe to say that American students generally incline to the view that there was no such raised stage, agreeing with the Germans, while English scholars appear generally to believe that the stage did exist and was used. As just remarked, the views of mere laymen in such a case are of small account, and I shall spare the reader my own, saying only that in the few reproductions of Greek plays that I myself have seen, there has been no confusion whatever produced by having the principal actors present in the “orchestra” space with the chorus—and this, too, without the aid of the distinguishing cothurnos, or sandal, to give to the principals any added height. From this it seems to me not unreasonable to contend that, if a stage did exist, it was hardly called into being by any pressing necessity to avoid confusion, as some have argued; while, on the contrary, it does seem as if the separation of the chief actors to the higher level would often mar the general effect. Such a play as the “Agamemnon” of Æschylus would, it seems to me, lose much by the employment of an elevated platform for those actors not of the chorus. In fact, there was no more need of any such difference in level, to separate chorus from principal, in ancient times than there is to-day. The ancients did, however, seek to differentiate the principals from the chorus players, by adding a cubit unto their stature, so to speak, for they devised thick-soled sandals that raised them above the ordinary height. Besides this they employed masks, and occasionally even mechanism for aerial acting, and also subterranean passages.

Whatever we may each conclude as to the existence or non-existence of an elevated stage at the time of Pericles, we shall all agree, no doubt, that our modern stagecraft takes its nomenclature direct from the Greek. The “orchestra,” which in the old Greek meant the circle in which the dancing and acting took place, we have taken over as a word referring to the floor space filled with the best seats, and by a still less justifiable stretch of the meaning we have come to apply it to the musicians themselves. Our modern “scene” is simply the old Greek word σκηνή (skèné), meaning a “tent,” which the ancient actors used as a dressing-room. The marble or stone wall, of varying height, and pierced by doors for the entrance and exit of actors, was called by the Greeks the “proskenion,” or structure before the skèné, serving to conceal the portions behind the scenes and add background to the action. The word is obviously the same as our modern “proscenium,” though the meaning to-day is entirely different. In ancient times the proskenion, instead of being the arch framing the foreground of a “scene,” was the background, or more like our modern “drop” scene. Being of permanent character and made of stone, it generally represented a palace, with three entrances, and often with a colonnade. At either side of the proskenion were broad roads leading into the orchestra space, called the “parodoi,” by means of which the chorus entered and departed on occasion, and through which chariots might be driven. Thus, for instance, in the “Agamemnon,” that hero and Cassandra drove through one of the parodoi into the orchestra, chariots and all—a much more effective entrance than would have been possible had they been forced to climb aloft to a stage by means of the ladder represented on some of the vases as used for the purpose. The side from which the actor entered often possessed significance, as indicating whether he came from the country or from the sea. As for disagreeable scenes, such as the murders which form the motif of the Oresteian trilogy, it may not be out of place to remark that they were almost never represented on the stage in sight of the orchestra or spectators, but were supposed always to take place indoors, the audience being apprized of events by groans and by the explanations of the chorus. The ordinary theatrical performance was in the nature of a religious ceremony, the altar of the god being in the centre of the orchestra space, and served by the priest before the play began. And in leaving the subject, one may add that many Greek plays required sequels, so that they often came in groups of three, each separate from the other, but bearing a relation to each other not unlike our several acts of a single piece. So much for Greek theatres in general, and the theatre of Dionysus in particular.

Leaving it by the iron gate above and plunging into a labyrinthine mass of houses just outside, one will speedily come upon an interesting monument called the “choragic monument of Lysicrates.” This is the only remaining representative of a series of pedestals erected by victors in musical or dancing fêtes to support tripods celebrating their victories. This one, which is exceedingly graceful, has managed to survive and is a thing of beauty still, despite several fires and vicissitudes of which it bears traces. The street is still called the “Street of the Tripods.”

TEMPLE OF OLYMPIAN ZEUS

A few steps farther, and one emerges from the narrower lanes into the broader avenues of the city, and is confronted at once by the arch of Hadrian, which stands in an open field across the boulevard of Amalia. It is frankly and outspokenly Roman, of course, and does not flatter the Latin taste as compared with the Greek. It need delay nobody long, however, for the tall remaining columns of the temple of Olympian Zeus are just before, and are commanding enough to inspire attention at once. To those who prefer the stern simplicity of the Doric order of columns, the Corinthian capitals will not appeal. But the few huge, weathered pillars, despite the absence of roof or of much of the entablature, are grand in their own peculiar way, and the vast size of the temple as it originally stood may serve to show the reverence in which the father of the gods was held in the city of his great daughter, Athena. The more florid Corinthian capital seems to have appealed to the Roman taste, and it is to be remembered that this great temple, although begun by Greeks, was completed in the time of Hadrian and after the dawn of the Christian era: so that if it disappoints one in comparison with the more classic structures of the Acropolis, it may be set down to the decadent Hellenistic taste rather than to a flaw in the old Hellenic. As for the Corinthian order of capital, it is supposed to have been devised by a Corinthian sculptor from a basket of fruit and flowers which he saw one day on a wall, perhaps as a funeral tribute. The idea inspired him to devise a conventionalized flower basket with the acanthus leaf as the main feature, and to apply the same to the ornamentation of the tops of marble columns, such as these.