8
Every Greek play, whether tragedy, comedy or satyr play, includes a chorus: a group defined by a common identity (for example, old men of Thebes, married women of Corinth) who sing and dance and offer commentary on the action they see unfolding before them. The chorus is undoubtedly the most challenging aspect of Greek tragedy both for readers approaching the plays for the first time, and for directors attempting to stage them. Part of the problem is that tragedy has come down to us as words on a page; the music and spectacle of the chorus, which would have been a large part of its appeal, can only be imagined. However, a bigger issue is that we lack any good analogue for the chorus. Group song and dance plays little role in our lives in the twenty-first-century West, and while it is possible to think of occasions where song is used to create group solidarity (football chants, hymns in a religious service, protests), these are rare. Finally, the choral odes themselves, with their high-flown and elusive style, are off-putting to modern readers. Since a tragedy makes logical sense without the odes, it is tempting to see them as awkward add-ons and to engage with the chorus only insofar as it engages in the action. The purpose of this chapter is to show that this is entirely the wrong approach. Far from being an alien or decorative feature, the chorus is central to what tragedy meant to a Greek audience. Its purpose is not to baffle but to guide, and to shed light on the deeper issues raised.
To understand the tragic chorus we need to begin by thinking about why it exists in drama, and the role that choral performance held in Greek society. The first part of this chapter will discuss chorality in Greek life, and look at the heritage of the tragic chorus and the exposure an Athenian audience had to choral song. The second section will examine what choruses do in Greek tragedy and the challenges that we face when we try to interpret their role. Finally, we will explore the contribution made by choral odes.
Choruses in Greek life
To an ancient Greek, the question ‘why does tragedy contain a chorus?’ would make little sense. The chorus long predated tragedy and comedy and can be traced back to our earliest sources for the Greek world. It is already well established by the time of our first literary text, the Iliad. At the beginning of Homer’s epic, the Greek army needs to placate Apollo, and as part of the festivities they organize in his honour, the young men of the army perform the choral dance known as the paean (Iliad 1.472–4). The chorus here represents the Greek community, and its function is public and religious. But choruses could be organized for private affairs as well as civic ones, and their function need not be exclusively religious. For example, another passage in the Iliad describes a chorus celebrating a wedding, as it escorts the bridal couple with music and dances (18.492–6). As well as literary descriptions of choruses, we have fragments of the songs they performed for a diverse range of contexts such as religious festivals, athletic victories, weddings, funerals or coming-of-age songs for young girls. Art as well as literature pays testament to their importance, and choral dance is a popular theme on early Greek vases. In essence, the chorus marked the most significant moments in life, whether for the community at large or for individual members of it. When it performed, it affirmed shared beliefs and offered generally accepted morals. For example, choruses celebrating athletic victories remind the listener of the need for humility in moments of triumph, and warn that human fortune is fragile. Wedding choruses praise the bride and groom and offer their hopes for a blessed marriage, while funerary songs reflect on the human condition. From the perspective of the modern reader, these morals may seem trite, but by expressing them the chorus creates unity and offers a socially appropriate way to deal with these emotionally charged occasions.
Figure 8.1 Aeolus, ruler of the winds, leads a chorus of the clouds (fifth century BC). (Photo by A. Vergani/De Agostini Picture Library/Getty Images.)
This tradition of choral song remained vibrant in fifth-century BC Athens. Alongside tragedy and comedy at the Great Dionysia was the dithyramb competition, for which each of the ten tribes of Athens had to enter a chorus of fifty men and another of fifty boys. The fifteen members of each tragic chorus, and the twenty-four members of each comic one, were also recruited from the general male population. The Dionysia was one of many festivals in the Athenian year, most of which would have included choral performance, and individuals would have arranged many more informal choruses, such as celebrating a relative’s wedding. Any Athenian with a decent singing voice and sense of rhythm could have expected to have participated in a chorus during his life, and would have seen dozens of them performed. Plato sums up how pervasive choruses were when he defines the uneducated man as ‘someone without experience of the chorus’ (in Greek, the pithy phrase apaideutos achoreutos, Laws 2.654a). Plato’s comments also indicate the didactic role ascribed to the chorus. Being in a chorus was a form of physical and musical training, but choral song also imparts moral lessons.
The chorus’ role in tragedy
Despite the familiarity of the chorus, however, the tragic chorus is unique in several respects. Like the ritual chorus, the chorus of tragedy consists of a group who sing and dance in unison, and who share an identity in terms of gender and age-group. However, in the tragic chorus, this group identity is fictional. The Athenians who make up the chorus are young men, but nearly all tragic choruses represent a different social grouping, whether women, slaves, foreigners or old men. The mimetic nature of the chorus (from the Greek mimeisthai, ‘to imitate’) is reinforced by the masks that its members (like the actors) wear, which prevent the audience identifying friends or acquaintances, and turn them into characters within the play-world. The chorus is unlike the characters, however, in that it acts as a single unit with a shared outlook. Its identity is by no means naturalistic, and nor are its members portrayed as individuals. In this sense, the tragic chorus plays two roles simultaneously: it acts as a character in the dramatic fiction, but it also behaves like a chorus, singing and dancing as a group, and in so doing it evokes the other forms of choruses that the audience knows, and so gains the authority to state wisdom. This distinction between choral- and character-identity is to some extent reflected in the convention that it is the chorus leader (representing the whole chorus) who speaks in dialogue with the actors, while the other members join in to sing the choral odes.
The chorus usually enters a little after the start of the play, and once on stage remains present throughout. Like all the conventions of tragedy, this ‘rule’ is not absolute, and poets can adapt it to striking effect. For example, in Sophocles’ Ajax, the chorus of Salaminian sailors leave the stage to look for Ajax, and the location changes to the lonely spot where the hero commits suicide. Thus the chorus’ absence highlights how Ajax has become isolated from his community. Similarly, in Aeschylus’ Kindly Ones, Orestes temporarily escapes the chorus of Furies when he slips away as they sleep and goes to Athens. The chorus catch up with Orestes rapidly, and their exit and reappearance in a new location creates the sense of a fast-paced chase, where Orestes cannot shake his pursuers.
The chorus forms opinions and continually offers commentary. Sometimes it supports one particular character, as in Medea, where the chorus of Corinthian women are won over by Medea’s sufferings. Other choruses have a more direct stake in the action, as is the case in Aeschylus’ Kindly Ones, where the chorus of Furies wish to punish Orestes’ murder of his mother. However, the chorus can become involved in the action only to a limited degree. It can pass on information (for example, at the end of Medea the chorus informs Jason that his children are dead) or fail to do so (as earlier in Medea, where the chorus agrees to keep Medea’s plans secret). The chorus’ choice as to whether to speak or not can be important, as in Euripides’ Ion, where the chorus of Creusa’s loyal slaves disobey Xuthus’ instruction to keep silent, and tell their mistress that he has secretly adopted Ion as his long-lost son. This piece of information is critical to the plot, as it makes Creusa decide to murder Ion, and disrupts the plan of Apollo that has been laid out in the prologue. The chorus’ opinions can influence the behaviour of other characters, as in Sophocles’ Antigone, where they persuade Creon (too late) to heed Tiresias’ warning and rescue Antigone from her tomb. However, the chorus is unable to take action itself. Poets sometimes play with this convention by making their chorus contemplate taking more drastic steps. For example in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, the chorus hear Agamemnon’s death-cries inside the house, and debate what to do (1348–53):
–I tell you my opinion: summon the citizens here to the palace to help.
–My view is we should rush in as quickly as possible and charge them with the deed while the sword is still dripping blood.
–I am also in favour of this sort of plan, and I vote for taking action. This is no time for delaying.
The chorus’ indecision over whether to act creates tension. We are given the sense of a crucial moment passing in shock and confusion. There is also humour in the portrayal of these long-winded old men arguing about how to intervene while never getting round to doing so. But it seems inconceivable that an audience would expect the chorus to take action, and part of the frisson is the fact that the only people present are powerless to do anything. Similarly in Medea, the chorus hear the children’s screams and ponder whether they should save them (1275–81):
CHORUS: Shall I go into the house? I am resolved to stop the murder of the children.
CHILD A: Yes for God’s sake, stop it! Now is the time.
CHILD B: How close we are now to the snare of the sword!
CHORUS: Hard-hearted woman, it turns out you are made of stone or iron, you who kill the children you bore with a death dealt by your own hand.
The chorus’ inability to intervene increases the horror. The children come tantalizingly close to salvation, but the chorus fall back upon moralizing and the moment is lost. Again, the idea that they might act is introduced for dramatic effect rather than because the audience imagines it is a possibility.
The chorus’ main role is to perform a series of odes, known as stasima (singular: stasimon), with the exception of the choral entry song, which is called the parodos. In these odes, the chorus sings and dances, and moves from the action of the play to reflect on broader issues. We will explore the poetic impact of choral odes later in this chapter, but it is important to note that the odes have logistical and structural functions. A choral ode can account for a passage of time far longer than that taken to perform it. For example, in Euripides’ Hippolytus, while the chorus sing the third stasimon (1104–50), Hippolytus is supposed to make his way from the palace to the seashore, complete his preparations for exile, set out on his journey, be attacked and maimed by Poseidon’s magical bull, and have his servants return his dying body to the palace. An ode therefore fulfils a similar function to techniques such as blackouts or changes of scene in a modern play, which can help the audience understand that time has gone by. In practical terms, the odes also allow the actors to change costumes and masks, essential since three actors had to play all the parts.
The chorus’ role in structuring the play is not limited to the odes, since its comments help the audience follow what is going on. For example, the chorus often introduces a character when he or she enters, and sometimes comments on their mood or expression. The size of a Greek theatre, and the fact that the actors wear generic masks, mean that audience members might otherwise find it difficult to identify characters. Similarly, the chorus leader usually makes a short statement between two speeches, which is often banal in content (along the lines of ‘you have spoken well, but let us see what the other person has to say’) but helps the audience know that one speech has ended and another will shortly begin.
Choral authority and choral identity
As we have seen, the chorus is quick to offer opinions, and scholars have long debated how much the audience is likely to be influenced by these comments. The nineteenth-century classicist August Schlegel described the chorus as the ‘ideal spectator’, meaning that it represents how an average audience member would react. Modern scholars have questioned this close identification between chorus and audience. For a start, we cannot assume such a thing as a ‘typical’ audience member: the audience of Greek tragedy was diverse, and as with any piece of complex art, people will differ in their responses to it. That said, the chorus usually consists of a group different to the majority of the audience (Athenian males), and it may be unsafe to assume that they would automatically align themselves to a group of women, slaves or foreigners. Moreover, tragedy is full of choruses with partisan views that the audience is unlikely to share. If we followed the chorus of the Bacchae in thinking that Pentheus was a wicked man who deserved everything he got, the play would be a dull morality tale. The chorus does not always have as complete a picture as the audience, and many plays create irony by juxtaposing their limited understanding with the audience’s greater awareness. For example, in Sophocles’ Oedipus the King, the chorus are ignorant of Oedipus’ identity and cling to the belief that he can save the city, when he is the cause of the plague. But Schlegel’s idea has a truth at its core, namely that the chorus has a significant effect on how the audience responds, and their relationship with the audience is different to that of the characters.
The fact that the chorus is always present and can assess everything that happens casts it in the role of an internal audience. Most choruses are not directly involved in the events of the play, and so like the audience are onlookers (though not necessarily impartial ones). The existence of choruses outside tragedy also gives the tragic chorus an inherent authority, since the audience is used to choruses representing the community and speaking with wisdom. In the odes, the chorus expresses broader morals, and is put in the position of advising the audience and guiding their response. Thus while the audience is not bound to believe everything the chorus says, its views carry a certain weight.
It is important to remember that the poet has free choice over the grouping and characterization of his chorus. Comparing Aeschylus’ Agamemnon with Euripides’ Medea brings out how important this can be is in shaping the audience’s response. As we saw in Chapter 6, Clytemnestra and Medea are similar characters, women who have been wronged by their husbands and commit murder to take revenge. However, audiences tend to respond much more sympathetically to Medea than to Clytemnestra, and one of the ways Euripides achieves this is through Medea’s relationship with the chorus. By giving Medea a chorus of sympathetic fellow women, he allows her to explain her position and make a case as to why she is justified in seeking revenge, which they accept. Since the audience has heard Medea’s viewpoint, we can appreciate the difficult position Jason has put her in (whether or not we agree that the length she goes to are reasonable). Conversely in Aeschylus’ play, the chorus consists of old men who fear Clytemnestra. Because she lacks a confidant, the audience gets no access to her point of view and so we, like the chorus, perceive her as enigmatic and terrifying. It can be an interesting thought experiment to imagine how changing the chorus’ identity or attitudes might affect the dynamics in a play. In Oedipus the King, it is crucial to Sophocles’ telling of the myth that we feel sympathy for Oedipus, and perceive him as a basically well-intentioned man and good ruler, and this is largely achieved through the chorus’ profound loyalty to him. Even when we see a darker side to Oedipus’ personality, such as his rude treatment of Tiresias and his paranoia that Creon is plotting against him, the chorus’ continued respect helps us remember his good points. If Sophocles had created a chorus who distrusted Oedipus and regarded him as a tyrant, his behaviour might come across very differently.
Choral odes
The odes sung by the chorus are its most significant contribution to the plays but are often neglected. Choral poetry is dense and difficult (particularly in the original Greek), and their style can be off-putting, as the chorus uses the play as a jumping-off point of for more general reflection, and often refers to myths and places that a modern reader is unfamiliar with. This can make interpreting the odes hard work, and it can be tempting to see them as decorative filler. Indeed, as Greek drama developed after the fifth century BC, this became the case. We have one surviving tragedy from after the fifth century, the Rhesus (falsely ascribed to Euripides), which archaizes by retaining the chorus, but it otherwise fell out of use in post-classical tragedy. Similarly, in the later comedies of Aristophanes and those of Menander, choral odes are indicated in manuscripts by the word chorou ([song] of the chorus). This suggests that any piece of lyric poetry could be inserted at this point rather than something composed for this moment, and this development probably indicates a waning of interest in the chorus. Aristotle criticizes this tendency in his Poetics, where he calls these unconnected odes embolima (‘something added in’) and complains that this is as bad as transferring a whole speech or scene to a different play (1456a29). In fifth-century tragedy, however, the odes are still tailored to each scene, and so we should take Aristotle’s comments seriously, and do our best to appreciate what they contribute.
Choral odes vary in how overtly linked they are to the on-stage action, but even where the ode appears to wander off on a tangent, there is often a reference to what has led the chorus’ thoughts in that direction. The audience is often required to think for themselves in order to make the connection. In Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, for example, the chorus respond to the news that Troy has fallen by describing Helen’s voyage to Troy with Paris, and how their relationship caused the war (681–716). They then go on to tell a story of a shepherd who adopted a lion cub, which was delightful as a baby but grew up to devour his sheep (717–36), before they return to singing about Helen. Though the story of the lion cub has no obvious connection with the play, and the chorus do not directly comment on its relevance, the fact that it is embedded within the story of Helen and Paris helps the audience to recognize that it is meant as an analogy. The lion cub is like Helen, in that it is beautiful but dangerous, and taking it in will lead to disaster. Giving this message in the form of a parable lends it a broader meaning, one relevant to the audience too: the point is not just that the Trojans were foolish to welcome Helen, but that a wise man thinks about the consequences of his actions, not just what is attractive in the short term. One of the main functions of the choral odes is to connect the plot of the play to wider ideas, and so explore what we can learn from watching it. Myth, fable and allegory are all typical methods to achieve this.
When we approach choral odes diligently, we find that far from being irrelevant, they can illuminate our interpretation. To conclude this study of the chorus, I have chosen two odes often dismissed as generic moralizing or filler: the ‘ode to man’ in Sophocles’ Antigone (332–75); and the ‘Athens ode’ in Euripides’ Medea (824–65). As we shall see, these odes require us to concentrate, but repay careful attention by giving us new insights into the action and characters in their respective plays.
The ‘ode to man’ is the first stasimon of Antigone and comes after Creon’s discovery that someone has buried the corpse of Polynices, but before the revelation that this was Antigone. We have just seen Creon lay out his vision of leadership, where he argues that a good man puts the common benefit first, but we have also seen him bully the guard when confronted with news he does not like. As the guard leaves, the chorus sing in general terms about mankind’s ascent to dominion on the earth, and what it means to be a human being (332–75):
There are many wonders, but none more wonderful than man. This thing crosses the sea even when it is white with the storms of the south wind, driving through the waves as they surge around him. He wears down Earth, immortal and unwearied, the oldest of the gods, turning it over with the race of horses as his ploughs go back and forth year after year.
In the meshed coils of his net he captures the light-minded tribe of birds and the race of wild animals and the watery life of the sea, skilful man! By his arts he overpowers the beast of the field and the mountains. He tames the shaggy-maned horse, putting the yoke upon its neck, and the tireless mountain bull.
He has taught himself speech and thought as swift as the wind, and the temper that governs cities, and how to escape the open air of inhospitable frost and harshly-raining missiles. Resourceful in everything, he approaches what is to come without resource in nothing. Against death alone will he find no escape, but from hopeless diseases he has devised a way to flee.
Possessing a resourceful ability at invention, something clever beyond expectation, he creeps on sometimes to evil, sometimes to good. When he honours the laws of the land and the justice of the gods protected by oath, he is raised high in the city. But citiless is he who associates with wickedness because of his daring. May he never share my hearth or think like me, the man who does such things.
The chorus praise the skills that make mankind unique, and so describe the features that enable human civilization. These are listed in order of increasing importance, culminating in the claim that it is only in the face of death that man remains vulnerable. Over the course of this description we see a progression towards social living. The first things mentioned are those that enable man to meet material needs: free movement, obtaining food through agriculture, hunting and domesticating animals. The chorus then move onto the abilities that make humans able to live in a community: language, rationality, the ability to make shelter and the ability to behave corporately (‘the temper that governs cities’). It is after this build-up to the idea of communal living that the chorus triumphantly conclude that man is ‘resourceful in everything’, and the ode thus emphasizes social skills as man’s greatest achievement.
Essentially, then, the ode to man describes the formation of the polis and places it at the core of human identity. It is significant that it comes immediately after Creon’s introduction as the new ruler of the Theban polis, and the speech where he lays out his views on the importance of governing for the common good (175–210). The ode invites us to reflect upon the duties that individuals owe to the community, and so relates to one of Antigone’s central themes: the potential for conflict between family and state. On first analysis, we might be tempted to take the ode as validation of Creon’s viewpoint, and interpret the chorus as agreeing we should prioritize the safety of the community, since this is what sets us apart from the animals.
However, in the last section of the ode a new idea comes to the fore, as the chorus emphasize obedience to law and to the gods. A commonplace of Greek thought was the idea that man’s position was between the gods and the beasts, and the ode shows how man differentiates himself from the animals but must recognize his place below the divine. All man’s skills do not guarantee his success, since they can lead to evil as well as good outcomes. What matters is whether a man obeys the laws of his city and of the gods: the man who does this is elevated, while he who does not is repudiated, and the ode ends with the chorus expressing loathing for the latter. The chorus’ analysis is straightforward, and assumes that it is easy to follow both divine and civic laws: hence the man who disobeys them is simply an evildoer. However, the play explores the fact that there can be tension between these two forms of authority, and questions what an individual should do when they come into conflict. Creon is a man ‘raised high in the city’, and as its king he decides what the laws of the land are. However, his decrees are not compatible with ‘the justice of the gods’, and Tiresias will later make it clear that by refusing to bury Polynices and by burying Antigone alive, Creon blasphemes and will be punished for it. Thus Creon creates a situation where it is not possible to follow the chorus’ advice, and Antigone must decide whether to obey mortal or divine law, as when she tells the king, ‘I did not think that your decrees were of such power that a mortal could transgress against the unwritten and certain laws of the gods’ (453–5). Thus the ode sets up the idea that knowing how to be a good person and live well within a community is mankind’s highest duty, but the audience knows this is not as simple as the chorus suggests. By placing this ode early, Sophocles sets up an idealistic perspective on how human beings should live, which the later scenes deconstruct, as we come to see that knowing how to behave is one of the great challenges in human life.
The ‘Athens ode’ in Medea is another example of a song which at first glance seems to be there for decorative purposes. The first part of the ode consists of praise of Athens and its history and as it became commonplace to look for a close connection to the play, scholars tended to assume that its role was to flatter the Athenian audience. Here too, however, the context is significant, since the ode comes immediately after Medea has been offered sanctuary by the Athenian king Aegeus, which prompts her to disclose to the chorus that her plan is to kill her children (790–810). In response to this revelation, the chorus sing of the glory of Athens (824–65):
The descendants of Erechtheus have been fortunate since ancient times. They are children of the blessed gods, from a holy land never ravaged by the enemy. They feed on glorious wisdom and always walk delicately through the bright air where (it is said) the nine Pierian Muses once gave birth to Harmony.
People sing of how Aphrodite drew water from the streams of fair-flowing Cephisus and blew gentle and sweet breezes onto the land. Always setting a fragrant garland of roses upon her hair, she sends the Loves to sit beside Wisdom, to work every kind of excellence together.
How then will this city of holy rivers or the land filled with religious processions take in you, the child-killer, the unholy one, in the company of their citizens? Consider the killing of your children! Consider what kind of slaughter you are committing! By your knees, we implore you in every way we can, do not kill your children!
Where will you get the mental daring or the resolution of hand and heart to take on this dreadful deed? When you have turned your eyes to your children, how will you behold their fate with tearless eyes? When the children fall in supplication at your feet, you will not be capable of drenching your hand in their blood with a hard heart.
This ode falls into two halves, beginning with idealized praise of Athens, and followed by horror at what Medea plans. In the first part, the chorus list the aspects of Athenian identity that the audience would have taken pride in. The Athenians are called ‘descendants of Erechtheus’, which alludes to the myth that the Athenians were autochthonous – literally born from the soil of Attica – and so have the right to inhabit their land. The claim that Athens has never been invaded strengthens this sense of security. Athens has a connection with the Muses, which alludes to the city’s reputation for poetry, and a special relationship with Aphrodite, who gives it her blessings.
This portrayal of Aphrodite as a peaceful figure sits oddly with the rest of the play, where she is a destructive force. The previous choral ode (629–62) began with a description of her terrifying power, which is described as antithetical to virtue (‘loves that come in excess bring no good repute or virtue to men’, 629–30), and while the chorus acknowledge that moderate love can be a blessing, they describe love’s power as a poisoned arrow (635). Throughout the play we have seen the violent power of love, as it is Medea’s corrupted passion for Jason that drives her to vengeance. In this ode, however, Aphrodite is a socially beneficial goddess who works alongside wisdom to achieve virtue. Athens is presented as a magical place, safe from the problems in the rest of the world, and where the dark side of human emotion is tamed and harnessed to achieve goodness.
It is on this logic that the chorus insist that Medea cannot be welcomed in Athens, since they contrast the extreme nature of her crime with their idealistic vision of the city. Here, however, the audience’s greater knowledge of myth allows them to perceive the chorus as naive. According to myth, Medea will not only be welcomed into Athens, but will go on to wreak havoc there, as she becomes Aegeus’ partner (an event foreshadowed by the bond we see between them in the play), and tries to murder his son Theseus, the ultimate Athenian hero. Though the chorus believe Medea will not be capable of killing the children, the allusion to her mythological background as a murderess leaves us with a sense of foreboding. The ode, for all its beauty, creates a disturbing impression, as it alludes to a dark moment in Athens’ history. Athens cannot shut out the darker side of human nature, and Aegeus’ generosity in welcoming a suppliant will go on to put his city in danger. The Athenians prided themselves on their hospitality to the weak and dispossessed, but this ode reminds us that such things can come at a price.
This study of two odes aims to show that there is often more to the chorus than meets the eye. Choral odes may be challenging, but they reward close attention, since their aim is to set the action of the play in a broader context and to offer guidance and interpretation. The chorus may be tragedy’s greatest challenge, but it is also its greatest opportunity, and when we neglect or minimize it, we do ourselves, as well as the texts, a great disservice.