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