The Dramaturgy of Senecan Tragedy

by Thomas; Kohn

  ACT 3 (443–664)

  Action unit: Jocasta tries to convince both Polynices and Eteocles to make peace with each other.

  At line 443, Jocasta enters, with Polynices and Eteocles. It would be dramatically effective if she comes in from the center doors representing the main gate of the city, while each son comes on from a different wing. The previous descriptions of the Attendant apply here: Jocasta is terrified (attonita, 433), she has torn her white hair in her grief (laniata canas mater ostendit comas, 440), and tears flow down her cheeks (irrigat fletu genas, 441). She indicates where she would like to be stabbed (hunc petite ventrem haec membra, 447–48).14 She points first to Polynices (hic afuit, 462), then to Eteocles (nunc alter, 463). At last, Jocasta commands Polynices, who is worn out from long exile (longo fessus exilio, 466), to embrace her and to put aside his weapons (464–73). Frank notes that Polynices is described as holding a drawn sword and shield, while brandishing a spear, a physical impossibility; she does point out, however, that it is possible to simply hold all three objects.15 I would suggest instead that, although Jocasta uses the second-person singular imperative throughout this passage, she is actually talking to both of her sons, one at a time. Thus, one son may have a drawn sword, while the other brandishes a spear, and Jocasta turns to one son and then the other in turn. Fitch thinks Polynices obeys.16 Each brother watches the other for signs of treachery (quo vultus refers acieque pavida fratris observas manum? 473–74). Polynices is in doubt of what to do (quid dubius haeres? 477). He responds to his mother, telling her that he is afraid (timeo, 478); but he only speaks for two and a half lines before Jocasta interrupts in the middle of line 480. She turns to Eteocles (tu, 483) for a few lines. She then addresses one brother, and then the other, pointing to the proper one in turn (ille te, tu illum times? 488). As Polynices has indeed put aside his sword, and his shield is leaning against his spear, which has been planted in the ground (hic ferrum abdidit, reclinis hastae parma defixae incubat, 498–99), Jocasta turns again to Eteocles (ad te, 500). She weeps (sed ante lacrimas, 501), and is stunned, pale, and trembling (stupeo et exanguis tremo, 528). She points here and there (hinc et hinc, 529), as her limbs quake with fear (membra quassantur metu, 530). She prays (precor, 537), with appropriate gestures. At line 586, Polynices responds, pointing to his brother (ille, 590). Jocasta resumes, starting at line 598. She points in various directions (hinc, 602; hinc, 608; hinc, 610), before gesturing toward Eteocles (hunc, 640). Polynices speaks again, bursting in at the middle of line 643. His mother responds, starting at line 645. One of the men then interrupts in the middle of line 651, to engage in dialogue with his mother for the rest of what remains of the play. The manuscripts have Polynices continue to argue with Jocasta, a reading accepted by Fitch (2002). Grotius gives the lines to Eteocles and Polynices. But Zwierlein (1986) and Frank (1995) assign the scene to Eteocles and Jocasta.17 The content of the debate is typical Senecan argumentation about kingship and fear, and is most appropriate for someone who is currently a ruler (i.e., Eteocles) and a third party who is trying to get him to abdicate (i.e., his mother, Jocasta, and not his rival). In addition, it is awkward and somewhat unfair for Eteocles to be present and never get a chance to speak. Thus, I would follow Zwierlein and Frank.

  At line 664, the manuscripts stop. Presumably, after some blustering threats between the two brothers, all three actors exeunt, probably Jocasta through the center doors, and each brother back through the different wing from which he came to his army. Perhaps the Chorus would sing again. Then a Messenger would tell Jocasta the results of the battle, and she would lament, as the play draws to a close.

  Conclusions

  Seneca's play evokes the memory of Aeschylus' Septem Contra Thebas (467 BCE). The opening scene with an exiled Oedipus brings to mind Sophocles' Oedipus Coloneus (ca. 401 BCE), as well as Seneca's own Oedipus, along with its antecedents. But the most striking similarities are to Euripides' Phoenissae (ca. 410 BCE). Aside from the title18 (and possibly the Chorus), in both tragedies Jocasta, who has somehow survived the events of the Oedipus, pleads with her two sons not to bring ruin upon Thebes. Antigone has a prominent role in both, including a scene where an old family retainer describes the battlefield from the walls of Thebes. And both include a sightless and exiled Oedipus. Euripides, however, brings the blind former ruler out at the end, while Seneca uses him in the beginning. And the Roman play includes Jocasta in the scene on the walls. The Attic tragedian employed a much greater cast of characters, as well as a parallel plot where Tiresias orders Creon's son, Menoeceus, to sacrifice himself in order to save the city. But there is simply not enough of the Roman play to be able to tell what else he was planning to do, nor what his influences might have been.19

  The play's difficulty is that it is clearly unfinished.20 There are no choral passages, nor a satisfying prologue or conclusion. And transitions from one episode to the next are also lacking. What remains seems to be the hearts of several episodes, which the playwright was, for whatever reason, unable to complete. There are certainly clues about stage business within the scenes,21 but no clear indications of how to get from one episode to the next. And while Euripides' Phoenissae seems to provide the general structure for the play, with the story of the Septem Contra Thebas as a general backdrop, there is no unifying factor, as there was for Seneca's Troades. In fact, in that play, the Chorus provided the unity, and so it is probable that the Chorus was supposed to serve similar duty here.

  The big question is why did Seneca move the scene with Oedipus from the end to the beginning? Just as in Euripides' play, the audience gets to see the reaction of both parents to the boys' struggle for supremacy. But the Roman play presents the practical problem of how to get Antigone from exile in the wilderness with her father back to the walls of Thebes with her mother. Seneca must have had a reason for the change, as well as a solution to the Antigone conundrum; but there is no way to identify either.

  There simply is not enough of this play to draw any conclusions. One can only wish that Seneca had not been interrupted in his work, and had left a finished product that contained at the very least a prologue, choral odes, and a satisfying ending. On the other hand, the characters of this play respond to each other to a degree not found in the other plays. And even in this sketchy condition, there are signs of stage business, as well as some very powerful speeches.22

  Conclusion

  This project began as an investigation into the first-century Roman tragedies of Seneca, combining the methods of Oliver Taplin (1977) and Dana Sutton (1986) in order, to paraphrase Taplin, to develop a fuller grammar of Seneca's dramatic technique and to show what Seneca is all about. Oddly, neither of these two scholarly pioneers, nor many who followed,1 included a conclusion. There are, however, a number of conclusions that can be drawn from the present examination of Senecan dramaturgy.

  First and foremost, it should now be clear that Seneca was, in fact, a dramaturge in the truest sense of the word: a maker of dramas. Regardless of whether he composed with an actual theater or a fictive stage in mind, the Roman playwright constructed his tragedies with a certain consistency. A careful reading of the plays reveals entrances and exits, gestures, properties, and the emotions of the characters. The dramas also take full advantage of the Roman stage, using the center doors and the wings in a consistent manner, along with the trap door, the machina, the exostra, and the balcony, and even including the occasional change of scene. Seneca seems to follow the rule of three actors for the most part, distributing roles among a limited number of performers with skill and creativity in a way that often adds depths of meaning to the plays and to the characters themselves. The Chorus, although not always endowed with a clear identity, is nevertheless a vital and integral part of the plays. Even the clearly unfinished Phoenissae, while lacking a Chorus and a definite idea of the ultimate direction of the plot, shows obvious signs that staging and emotional concerns were in the forefront of the composer's mind. In short, all of the issues that a true maker o
f dramas must consider, and that a modern dramatist is accustomed to indicating through didaskalia, can be discerned in Senecan tragedy.2 And although the directions deduced in this study are not necessarily authentic or definitive, the fact that the options can be detected and evaluated reveals the artistry of Seneca tragicus.

  Second, dramaturgy is not an isolated element of Senecan drama, but rather a key ingredient, contributing to the themes of the individual plays. In the Oedipus, staging issues reveal Oedipus' isolation and loneliness, and a number of unusual abnormalities nudge the audience toward the fact that something is rotten in Thebes. The Agamemnon is full of deception, illustrated by the intentions to perform sacrifices to the gods, frequently stated by various characters, but never fulfilled. By the end of the play, the deception has been revealed, symbolized by the onstage presence of all of the important characters. In the first act of the Phaedra, Hippolytus introduces the Chorus, not verbally, but by singing the parodos, signaling that it will be an unusually active participant in the play. This also shows Hippolytus to be assuming a role not normally his, thus letting the audience know that he has transgressed the laws of theater, nature, and the gods. Further, the play requires a great deal of machinery, reflecting the machinations of Phaedra and the Nurse. And the role distribution provides important insights into the characters and the plot. The Medea also includes a large number of technical devices, which again illustrate Medea's plots and schemes. Jason is a blind spot to our heroine, and so his entrances and exits are consistently unmarked and unremarked upon. These two elements combine with others to challenge audience expectations, thus making it easier to accept that Medea frequently forgets to behave like herself. Many aspects of the Hercules Furens appear unclear and confused. But instead of being evidence of poor or fuzzy dramaturgy, these in fact serve to emphasize the central theme of the play: Hercules' madness. Similarly, the confusion and uncertainty in the Troades reflects the mood of the title characters. The Trojan women themselves are in shock, helpless and confused, and Seneca uses his dramatic technique to cause the audience to feel the same. Dramaturgical elements in the Thyestes are kept to a minimum. Entrances and exits are generally unannounced; emotions are not described; and the children of Thyestes, though vital to the action, are not named in the text. Throughout the play and its backstory, Atreus and Thyestes engage in secrecy and deception; and so the playwright himself keeps silent about all manner of onstage occurrences. Thus, dramaturgy is not an extra, subservient to the words; Seneca uses all of the elements at his disposal to craft his tragedies.

  Third, the previous points lead to the issue of the effect all of this would have on an audience. For whether our playwright composed with full-blown staging or a fictive theater in mind, he must have intended for someone to receive his work. That the plays have come down to us through graffito at Pompeii, through the writings of Quintilian,3 and through the E and A manuscripts themselves, shows that reception did occur. What reaction, then, would Seneca's particular dramatic style create for an audience? It is doubtful that storytelling was his primary motivation, as the playwright often assumes prior knowledge that he does not provide. The tragedies contain numerous instances of the omission of important plot points: the absence of any deities in the Phaedra to indicate that Venus is responsible for the misfortunes of Theseus and his family; any mention in the Medea that Creon stuck to his daughter as he tried to free her from Medea's gift; nor indeed any clue of where Medea escapes to in the end, and so forth. Either Seneca took it for granted that his audience would be aware of both the myth and previous renditions of it, or else he did not consider such awareness to be necessary for appreciating the play. In either case, surely a spectator who was familiar with other versions would add an additional dimension to the proceedings by recognizing what had been omitted.

  Further, characters frequently exclaim that they must behave as themselves (e.g., Ulixes at Troades 613–14, Medea at Medea 171 and 910). This kind of metadramatic shorthand allows the playwright to present a more or less fully developed character quickly and with a minimum of description. The audience does not need to be told what kind of person Ulixes is—he is Ulixes, and behaves in the way we would expect him to. But by drawing upon the tragic tradition and taking full advantage of it, Seneca assumes that his audience is aware of that tradition. Neither plot omissions nor character shorthand require prior knowledge, though it would enrich the experience. But these features do hint that storytelling was not the primary goal.

  So if telling the story was not foremost on Seneca's mind, what was he about? Many of the themes to which the dramaturgy calls attention have to do with the inner workings of the characters. For example, deception and scheming are emphasized in the Agamemnon, Phaedra, Medea, and Thyestes. But more than that, emotional states are revealed: the loneliness of Oedipus, the madness of Hercules, the confusion of the Trojan women, and so forth. In this way Senecan tragedy more closely resembles Japanese Noh theater than the intellectual drama of the second half of the fifth century.4 Keene describes Noh plays as “distillations of powerful emotions—jealousy, the craving for revenge, unswerving loyalty, or heartbreak over disappointed love—that transcend the particular character.”5 The same could be said for Seneca's plays, as the audience takes away Atreus' lust for revenge and Thyestes' helpless despair more than the events that got them into this situation. Keene further notes, “We tend to remember the [Noh] plays in terms of one prevailing emotion…. In extreme cases this means that a play lacks any semblance of conflict…and even plot.”6 Obviously, conflict is integral to Senecan drama; and while our Roman playwright could not abandon totally the Greek idea that plot is a key component of tragedy, he certainly does not give it as much emphasis as Aristotle would insist upon.7 Rather, at times the story seems to exist as an excuse through which Seneca may show his audience the strong emotions of his characters. This is not in any way to belittle these Roman dramas, nor indeed to elevate them. Seneca's plays are inherently neither worse nor better than those of Aeschylus, Sophocles, or Euripides. They are simply different, created by a different playwright, in a different culture, with a different dramaturgy.

  But it is not an easy task to negotiate a path between difference and tradition. W. Jackson Bate (1970) discusses at length the difficulties experienced by poets in eighteenth-century England as they tried to be original, to find something new that had not been done before. Ralph Waldo Emerson, in his 1837 speech that became known as “The American Scholar,” says that Americans must find their own voice, using their European predecessors as inspiration, but creating something new and unique. Roman authors clearly felt the same tension, but each followed a different course. Plautus and Terence each responded to Greek New Comedy in his own way. Vergil and Ovid each found a different method of adapting Homeric epic into Latin. Horace and Catullus were both inspired by Greek lyric poetry, but went their separate ways. Similarly, Seneca took on the genre of Greek tragedy. He accepted the stories and characters, and some of the basic structure; but he grafted them onto the conventions of the Roman stage, and made plot subservient to the emotions of his characters. In this way, he created something new, something inherently Roman, while still acknowledging his debt to the past.

  Finally, the question remains, why did Seneca tragicus, whoever he might have been, compose these plays? I do not mean to stir up the debate as to whether he was a philosopher, desiring to use the dramas to teach Stoicism, or a politician wanting to relay hidden messages to either Nero or his enemies. This study has established that our playwright was a dramatic artist with artistic goals. Today, any artist has practical considerations: create something popular that will draw an audience and thus make money, or something that could use the resources at the artist's disposal, in this case specific actors or a specific theater space. But, all things being equal, an artist without economic concerns should produce art that she or he is moved to create. The same, I would argue, is true for antiquity. Vergil did not compose the Aeneid just because
Maecenas or Augustus wanted him to. He would certainly be happy that the poem fit into his patron's designs. But surely Vergil would have found a way to create his masterpiece no matter what. And I would maintain this to be the case with Seneca tragicus, especially since there is no indication either way that the playwright was a professional man of the theater, needing the plays to be successful in order to survive. In any time period, a person does not compose seven complete tragedies on a whim. Even more, she or he does not put as much care and attention into them as we have seen in these dramas. Seneca's attention to the practicalities of the stage, his integration of those concerns into the very structure of the plays, and his using that method of composition to paint an emotional portrait for the audience, show that our playwright was an artist, taking full advantage of the tools and techniques of an artist, and driven by the concerns of an artist.

  Notes

  Introduction

  1. Taplin (1977) 1–2. Compare with Seale (1982) 12–13, who, although studying stagecraft in Sophocles, equates stagecraft with “spectacle,” and describes it as “external,” “obtrusive,” “conspicuous,” and often “gratuitous.”

  2. This controversy seems to have begun with A. W. Schlegel (1815), and reached its full fruition with Otto Zwierlein (1966). That it continues to be a subject of scholarly concern today can be seen in the efforts of George Harrison (2000) to gather together a number of Senecan scholars for a conference at Xavier University, including a performance of the Troades, which resulted in a collection of papers intended to shed light on the issue from a variety of points of view. See also Boyle (2006) 192–93.

  3. For a sampling of the discussion, see Leverett (2008) and Cardullo (1995).

  4. Consider also the so-called stage directions in parenthesis, which can be found throughout Roman epic, most prominently in Ovid. These figures interrupt direct speech with information ranging from actions (e.g., Metamorphoses 1.591) to both physical and atmospheric settings (e.g., Metamorphoses 5.282) to explanations (e.g., Metamorphoses 9.17).