The custode sold him a green pamphlet, with the story of the theatre in four languages. The pair of them clambered about, map in hand, exploring the stage, the cunei, the proscenium, while I sat and tried to imagine the captives and slaves at work here, hewing this vast theatre, that could seat forty thousand people, out of the solid rock.
“The next time we want to build a new theatre,” Patsy exclaimed, we should send the architect to Taormina. The man who planned this understood theatre building. The Greeks didn’t write about scenery, but they always put their theatres and temples where they got the best view. See how simple, how practical, how grand, this must have been! There went the stairs, leading to the seats of the nobility—look, here’s the name of one cut in the pavement, Iopeia, supposed to have been a priestess. She had a good seat at the play. Imagine—she sat here, heard the Antigone of Sophocles, between the acts looked at Etna! Happy Iopeia! I hope she deserved all she got. It must have been worth while to be a stockholder in this concern. Listen to the repertory: ‘Tragedies, devoted to Dionysius, Comedies to Demeter, Satires, Spectacles, Dances.’ The place was never shut like our theatres; it was the social centre of the town. When there was no performance going on, poets and philosophers met and discussed their theories, read aloud their works; foreign ambassadors were received here. Down below is the passage leading to the arena, where the wild beasts were driven through. We don’t want to see that; it belongs to the coarser Romans, to the time when they had gladiator shows like our prize fights.”
Here a party of English people came upon the scene, the first travelers we had seen since we left Naples. They were evidently from the white yacht that lay anchored near Naxos. They scrambled about the theatre for a little, then went up to the museum.
A tall slight man, in a yachting cap, evidently the host, interested me. He had the face of an American, the voice and manners of a Britisher.
“Do find out who they are,” I said to Patsy; “I am sure he is somebody.”
“Bother somebodies!” laughed Patsy. “We don’t want to hear about anybody except Iopeia; and listen to what the custode says—” he read from his floppy green pamphlet: “‘The theatre was built in the time of Andromachus. The foundations of most of Taormina’s monuments were laid under his government, as for example, the theatre, the forum, the temples, the aqueduct. He brought to this place the good taste and high culture of the Greeks of Colchis.’”
“The lady with the pretty yellow hair—look at her, Patsy—haven’t we seen the face before?”
He would not look, would only talk about Timæus, the son of Andromachus, and what a fine historian he was.
“I am sure it’s a face I know,” I persisted. Nothing would bring Patsy back to today; he was wandering in the golden age of Sicily. The porter of the Timeo told me about the travelers:
“The Princess Henry of Battenberg. The tall man? Sir Thomas Lipton. They came on his yacht, the ‘Erin’—there she goes, you can just see her!” The “Erin” had passed Naxos, headed for the great blue promontory sixty miles away, Syracuse!