The father of Amerigo (porter at our hotel), a smart fellow dark as a Moor, patted his son, as the child, tugging at his scarlet cap, made us a deep bow.
“Americano, yes, born in Nuova Yorka! I was butler to a great family—they paid me sixty scudi a month—go back? oh, yes! We came to see our parents once more, ma come si fà? The schools of Sicilia are not like those of Nuova Yorka. We go back for the little ones, though I myself am content here, è un bel paese!”
We were the only guests at the Villa Politi, a good inn near the Latomia. I thought it melancholy to sit at meals alone in the big dining-room; Patsy argued that we were better able to “reconstruct” ancient Syracuse in solitude than if surrounded by a lot of interesting people.
The Greek Theatre gave me my first overwhelming sense of really being in Magna Grecia; the beauty of the lines of the semicircle, the tiers of seats rising one above the other; the permanent feeling of the work hewn from the bed rock, are all extraordinarily impressive. The custode, a serious olive-colored man, was full of serviceable knowledge. As we listened to his talk, some small creature ran over my foot.
“Have no fear, Signora, that little animal is the friend of man; I owe him my life. Sitting here alone, I sometimes fall asleep in the sun, there is danger—“
“Fever?” Patsy interrupted.
“Ma che, no fever here, vipers! This one, he runs before the viper and makes a noise—zzzzz—like that to give warning. If I doze he wakes me, yes, even if he has to touch my face.”
“You are a Syracusan?” I said.
“I? a Roman! Twelve long years I have served in Siracusa—an exile, Signora, they have forgotten me! Oh! to see the cupolone once more—tira, tira!” He meant that the cupola of St. Peter’s drew him back to Rome.
Patsy mentioned Commendatore Boni; the custode was on fire. He begged us to speak to the great capo at Rome, perhaps we could get him “moved on?” He himself had a friend, a gentleman of influence, if we would see him, something might come of it—one never knows.