The caverns and the quarries called the Latomie are nowadays one of the sights of the city; once they quarried stone from them for their temples and palaces. But since they were abandoned for this use they metamorphosed to underground grottoes thick with a luxuriant vegetation so dense that it needed the skilled services of landscape gardeners to control — and indeed the work of engineers to cut paths and asphalt them securely down so that the public could take extensive strolls through this underground jungle. But this excursion was planned for the cool of the evening, and the general idea was that we should have a siesta after lunch back at the hotel. Nothing more pleasant to think of — that seemed to be the generally accredited view. The French Count was pleased when I said how much I regretted that we did not have a quirky guide of Sicily by Stendhal to match his Walks in Rome. Indeed he would have been the ideal companion for the trip — perhaps with Goethe as well.
There would probably have been a good Sicilian candidate also, but our ignorance of the island’s letters was abysmal. Yes, Pirandello and Lampedusa, and someone that Lawrence translated successfully; I had heard of others whose renown was also widespread but could not recall their names. Roberto was impatient too and ate in a boneless exhausted sort of way. He had had a long morning march and was not disposed for any more casual gossip before his nap.
So we returned, well fed and rested by a bracing cold swim in the sea. By contrast with the sea coast the hotel which was a little way inland was somewhat hot. I opened my shutters and stepped out on to my balcony to judge what siesta conditions were to be like. To my left a thoughtful Deeds was hanging up a bathing costume; to my immediate right the Bishop’s opera glasses had been placed on the balustrade to dry out; they indicated his presence next door. Beyond the Bishop stood the figure of Beddoes engaged in some domestic pursuit — he seemed to be darning a sock. I set out these dispositions in some detail because a small incident took place which lent depth and perspective to the portraits of the ecclesiastical pair — putting them in a somewhat intriguing light. Neither was on the balcony but their shutters stood open. Beddoes was about to address some cheerful remark to me across the gap when I shut him up by pointing to the Bishop’s balcony and miming people asleep. He duly broke off and it was at that minute that we heard the voice of the lady lifted in plangent rebuke. She said: “O yes, you are and you know it, you are against the whole universe!“ This sublime accusation, searing enough to become the foundation of a new Council of Nicea, reverberated on the silence and hung there, so to speak, unqualified by further noise or gesture. Beddoes and I gazed at one another. Deeds discreetly withdrew. I was about to do the same when a slap rang out, a distinct and unmistakable slap, followed once more by a wave of silence. We hovered there for a moment, Beddoes and I, like figures hastily improvised with the airbrush, or graven images reflected shimmering in a sunbeam. Nothing further happened after this and we both beat a tactful retreat into our rooms where in a matter of moments I was asleep, having set my little alarm for four. I wondered for a moment which of the two had slapped the other — had she swiped him? It was hardly conceivable that he had landed her one for such an impudent remark. And anyway what did it mean? Have women no innate respect for the Cloth? But sleep came to dispel these useless questions, and it came on bare feet, noiseless on the tiled floors. The alarm set me by the ears with a shock of surprise — it was like being hit by a thunderbolt.
When I got down to the terrace we were nearly all present tucking into an excellent tea with several kinds of cake. The transformation in the Bishop was marvelous to behold; he was expansive and smiling and relaxed. He caressed his wife’s arm like a clumsy but affectionate gundog. She too had a touch of red in her pale cheeks — had she made up? At any rate she was less pale than usual. Beddoes caught my eye from a neighboring table and gave us a wink of complicity which Deeds did not acknowledge; but undaunted he came over to us and whispered hoarsely: “After the slap they made love all afternoon in a disembodied way — perhaps for the first time since their marriage fifty years before; but I couldn’t make out who hit who, could you? At any rate that humble slap uncorked an unearthly lust….” Deeds got angry and said, “I wish you would go away and take your rumors with you.” Beddoes looked hurt. “It’s not rumors,” he said, “I watched them through the keyhole.”
The man was incorrigible and Deeds told him as much with a vehemence controlled only by good breeding; but undaunted by this the fellow followed us still and took a seat near us in the bus. The ride was not a long one, though my sense of direction was fazed and I could not tell if we went east or west. But today was to be a great treat for we were decanted upon a shady walk where another guide awaited us — to the relief of Roberto. This was an elderly man in dark glasses who looked like a policeman or a spy in a story of detection or espionage. Dark glasses — but so dark you could not see his eyes. He wore a bow tie and a Homburg hat with his well-cut but rather weary suit. Cufflinks, also. He was rather hard to place at first for his manners were somewhat seigniorial; was he an aristocrat down on his luck, and doing this job for the tips? But I think that Deeds had the right idea when he insisted that he was a university professor in classics who had become bored with retirement and was glad to use his knowledge in this way. He was certainly a most instructed and knowledgeable man, and his English and French were extremely good despite a bit of an accent. Moreover, he was mad about his subject and knew how to convey his enthusiasm. We were in good hands for a visit to the Roman and Greek treasures — the Roman amphitheater and the Greek theater which lay there, so fortunately rump to rump although belonging to different epochs of time. To have them both under our noses for comparison was a bit of luck — and the old guide told us as much….
But I am going too fast, for our attention was first directed to the huge altar to Zeus built by Hieron of which nothing remains save the stone emplacement with a few shattered stone suggestions as to its erstwhile function when it was used for the giant sacrifices to the god. There was still the ramp up which the animals were driven to the place where the priests waited to dispatch them. This gave our guide the chance of a little disquisition upon the nature and function of the Greek sacrifice — and of course here one could see all the difference between him and Roberto. He knew his Ancient Greece and had extensively visited the modern one — so he had a yardstick with which to compare Sicily. (Diodorus records a sample sacrifice here as counting 450 oxen, a prodigious number.) But our guide made haste to point out that there was nothing gloomy, or cruel or depressing about such a custom — for the whole town ate the sacrifice after it had been consecrated by the priests. It was a Bank Holiday celebration with everything on the house. “Greek writers of the fifth century have a way of speaking of, an attitude towards, religion which is wholly a thing of joyful confidence, a friendly fellowship with the Gods whose service is but a high festival for man.” He was quoting, of course, and Deeds, who had already been on this tour once before whispered to me that it was from Jane Harrison (peace be to her shade!). But the guide was in full spate now and we got a chunk of Xenophon thrown at us which later I noted down from his little black notebook. It was very much to the point, running: “As to sacrifices and sanctuaries and festivals and precincts, the People, knowing that it is impossible for each poor man individually to sacrifice and feast and have sanctuaries in a beautiful and ample city, has discovered by what means he may enjoy these privileges. The whole state accordingly, at the common cost, sacrifices many victims, while it is the People who feast on them and divide them among themselves by lot.” The old guide made no bones about the fact that he was reciting, for he beat time with his fingers to the English text; and added in English and French: “It was a great fiesta, religion, then. Nowadays, we Sicilians still keep quite a shadow of the sentiment — unlike the Italians.” O dear, another fanatic nationalist!