DOI chapter:
Division C: The road immediately east and south of the Acropolis, from the street of Tripods to the shrine of Demeter Chloe
DOI chapter:Section XII
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.61302#0464
292
MYTHOLOGY AND MONUMENTS
DIV. C
The whole magnificent action of the actors is crowded on to a
narrow ledge, while far below, in a space scarcely more ample,
the chorus perform intricate evolutions, treading on each other’s
heels, and occasionally, by speech or gesture, making a paren-
thetic peck at the actors above. The whole is artificial, conven-
tionalised, utterly unlike the simple, large, straightforward freedom
that would naturally be expected of a Greek representation. But
once restore the actual state of things—the great round orchestra
with its two broad paradoi, its temporary skene on a level with
the orchestra, its one big central door—and all is free and great.
The orchestra is the acting as it is the dancing place, and actors
and dancers are really one company, instinct with one impulse.
Take, as Dr. Dorpfeld has done, the Agamemnon as an instance,
and watch it free from the sorry trammels of a high and narrow
Roman stage. Enter the watchman on the top of the temporary
palace of Agamemnon ; the whole orchestra is still clean and clear
of actors and chorus ; he sees the beacon fire and cries aloud, and
forthwith in stream the chorus by the two broad paradoi, singing the
fate of Troy ; and when the long tremendous chant is ceasing, they
catch sight of Clytemnestra coining from out the stage-house by the
one central door, and they bid her hail. She speaks with them face
to face on the orchestra, which she enters straight from the palace:
there is no division of height, only a seemly space between
the queen and her servants. To them enters the herald by
one or other of the parodoi ; he comes rushing in from afar, up
the broad entrance space, not rushing down head foremost on to a
narrow high stage where his haste seems precarious, but at ease
along all the length of the parodos, whence the spectators as well
as chorus could watch him coming from afar. The chorus sing
again, and at last comes the entrance of Agamemnon with the
captive Cassandra and all the pageant of returning war behind
him. How absurd Agamemnon and his chariot look, shot half
through a side door on a modern Greek stage, many can testify.
It is only the humble and touching conviction that the effect is
“Greek” that enables a modern audience to support the sight
without laughter. But see him come with his train sweeping up
the parodos, thronging the orchestra, the chorus chanting its
anapaests, swaying to either side to make room for the great pro-
cession, and we have a pomp indeed fit for the coming of a king.
Clytemnestra, already on the orchestra, speaks to the elders round
her long-drawn speech ; she spreads the purple carpets, she accosts
the captive silent stranger in the car, with the throng of curious
MYTHOLOGY AND MONUMENTS
DIV. C
The whole magnificent action of the actors is crowded on to a
narrow ledge, while far below, in a space scarcely more ample,
the chorus perform intricate evolutions, treading on each other’s
heels, and occasionally, by speech or gesture, making a paren-
thetic peck at the actors above. The whole is artificial, conven-
tionalised, utterly unlike the simple, large, straightforward freedom
that would naturally be expected of a Greek representation. But
once restore the actual state of things—the great round orchestra
with its two broad paradoi, its temporary skene on a level with
the orchestra, its one big central door—and all is free and great.
The orchestra is the acting as it is the dancing place, and actors
and dancers are really one company, instinct with one impulse.
Take, as Dr. Dorpfeld has done, the Agamemnon as an instance,
and watch it free from the sorry trammels of a high and narrow
Roman stage. Enter the watchman on the top of the temporary
palace of Agamemnon ; the whole orchestra is still clean and clear
of actors and chorus ; he sees the beacon fire and cries aloud, and
forthwith in stream the chorus by the two broad paradoi, singing the
fate of Troy ; and when the long tremendous chant is ceasing, they
catch sight of Clytemnestra coining from out the stage-house by the
one central door, and they bid her hail. She speaks with them face
to face on the orchestra, which she enters straight from the palace:
there is no division of height, only a seemly space between
the queen and her servants. To them enters the herald by
one or other of the parodoi ; he comes rushing in from afar, up
the broad entrance space, not rushing down head foremost on to a
narrow high stage where his haste seems precarious, but at ease
along all the length of the parodos, whence the spectators as well
as chorus could watch him coming from afar. The chorus sing
again, and at last comes the entrance of Agamemnon with the
captive Cassandra and all the pageant of returning war behind
him. How absurd Agamemnon and his chariot look, shot half
through a side door on a modern Greek stage, many can testify.
It is only the humble and touching conviction that the effect is
“Greek” that enables a modern audience to support the sight
without laughter. But see him come with his train sweeping up
the parodos, thronging the orchestra, the chorus chanting its
anapaests, swaying to either side to make room for the great pro-
cession, and we have a pomp indeed fit for the coming of a king.
Clytemnestra, already on the orchestra, speaks to the elders round
her long-drawn speech ; she spreads the purple carpets, she accosts
the captive silent stranger in the car, with the throng of curious