The Greek theater and its drama

by Roy C. Flickinger

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 developments of the doctrine; for that the interested reader may consult Spingarn’s article. But the general position of the school is as follows: “A play is a story (a) devised to be presented (b) by actors (c) on a stage (d) before an audience.”[6] These are not merely important elements or essential elements; they are the prime elements. They outweigh all other considerations. It was Diderot’s central idea that the essential part of a play was not created by the poet at all, but by the actor. The “closet-drama” they hold up to scorn as a contradiction in terms. The “psychology of the crowd,” long before that name for it had been invented, was an integral part of this teaching. The inadequacy of this point of view is aptly expressed in Goethe’s words concerning Schlegel: “His criticism is completely one-sided, because in all theatrical pieces he merely regards the skeleton of the plot and arrangement, and only points out small points of resemblance to great predecessors, without troubling himself in the least as to what the author brings forward of graceful life and the culture of a high soul.”[7]

To me neither of these theories is satisfactory. I conceive the truth to lie between them. Etymologically the word “drama” means “action,” and the practice of the Greek theater for centuries shows that an action carried on by living impersonators is involved. Action narrated on a printed page is not enough. I am willing to concede that by a natural extension of meaning a piece which was confessedly written for the closet and which does not and cannot succeed upon the stage may nevertheless deserve to be called a “drama.” But despite its poetic charm and other merits such a drama qua drama is indeed a vie manquée. On the other hand, against the materialistic school I maintain the self-evident proposition that it is possible for a play to observe all the technical rules arising from the conditions of performance in a theater and before an audience and yet be so lacking in poetry, in truth to life, in inherent worth, as to be undeserving of the name of “drama.” It is evident, then, that craftsmanship must be the medium of the playwright, not his sole possession. But, in truth, the issue here is more apparent than real. It does not confront us in practice. Both these extremes constitute a negligible fraction of our dramatic literature. Students of the drama in university seminars, dramatic reviewers in the theaters, and playwrights at their desks, at least those who aspire to an enduring fame, alike draw upon the same body of plays for their knowledge of dramatic lore—upon Shakespeare, Euripides, Molière, Lessing, Sophocles, Ibsen. All these masters had a close and practical knowledge of the theater for which they wrote. On the other hand, they were infinitely more than mere technicians.

But Spingarn would maintain that the aesthetic value of a play is entirely independent of theatrical conditions or the conventions arising therefrom. “For aesthetic criticism the theater simply does not exist” (cf. op. cit., p. 89). Surely, if Sophocles were writing plays for the present-day public he would find it necessary to dispense with the choral odes which have been at once the delight and the despair of Greek students from his generation to this. Would not such an omission and the consequent readjustments affect the aesthetic value of his tragedies? Or if one of our dramatists could be set down in a Greek theater of some twenty-four hundred years ago, which was incapable of representing an interior scene and had never contained a box set, certainly his dramas would have to be turned literally inside out before they could be produced at all. Would this recasting in no wise affect their aesthetic criticism? Spingarn is anxious to protect Aristotle from the imputation of believing that plays and their theatrical representation are “mutually inclusive.” But his own position makes them mutually exclusive. Both theories are extreme and unwarranted. I have already quoted Spingarn’s conception of a play. In my opinion, Mr. Galsworthy’s putting of the matter is not only broader, but far preferable, for the reason that it duly recognizes, as Spingarn’s dictum does not, the facts of existence. He writes: “For what is Art but the perfected expression of self in contact with the world?”[8] While this definition takes full cognizance of aesthetic and spiritual values, it yet does not exclude such unmentioned but implicit factors as the medium of expression chosen by the artist, the circumstances under which his work is created and is to be exhibited, the past history and inherited conventions of the genre, etc. On the contrary, it is apparent that Galsworthy would not, after the fashion of the materialistic school, elevate these indispensable, though subordinate, matters to the exclusion of all else.