Whilst he was gently remonstrating with God for having given him into the power of the demons, he felt himself pushed and dragged amidst a crowd of people who were all hurrying in the same direction.  As he was unaccustomed to walk in the streets of a city, he was shoved and knocked from one passer to another like an inert mass; and being embarrassed by the folds of his tunic, he was more than once on the point of falling.  Desirous of knowing where all these people could be going, he asked one of them the cause of this hurry.

“Do you not know, stranger,” replied he, “that the games are about to begin, and that Thais will appear on the stage?  All the citizens are going to the theatre, and I also am going.  Would you like to accompany me?”

It occurred to him at once that it would further his design to see Thais in the games, and Paphnutius followed the stranger.  In front of them stood the theatre, its portico ornamented with shining masks, and its huge circular wall covered with innumerable statues.  Following the crowd, they entered a narrow passage, at the end of which lay the amphitheatre, glittering with light.  They took their places on one of the seats, which descended in steps to the stage, which was empty but magnificently decorated.  There was no curtain to hide the view, and on the stage was a mound, such as used to be erected in old times to the shades of heroes.  This mound stood in the midst of a camp.  Lances were stacked in front of the tents, and golden shields hung from masts, amidst boughs of laurel and wreaths of oak.  On the stage all was silence, but a murmur like the humming of bees in a hive rose from the vast hemicycle filled with spectators.  All their faces, reddened by the reflection from the purple awning which waved above them, turned with attentive curiosity towards the large, silent stage, with its tomb and tents.  The women laughed and ate lemons, and the regular theatre-goers called gaily to one another from their seats.

Paphnutius prayed inwardly, and refrained from uttering any vain words, but his neighbour began to complain of the decline of the drama.

“Formerly,” he said, “clever actors used to declaim, under a mask, the verses of Euripides and Menander.  Now they no longer recite dramas, they act in dumb show; and of the divine spectacles with which Bacchus was honoured in Athens, we have kept nothing but what a barbarian—­a Scythian even—­could understand—­attitude and gesture.  The tragic mask, the mouth of which was provided with metal tongues that increased the sound of the voice; the cothurnus, which raised the actors to the height of gods; the tragic majesty and the splendid verses that used to be sung, have all gone.  Pantomimists, and dancing girls with bare faces, have replaced Paulus and Roscius.  What would the Athenians of the days of Pericles have said if they had seen a woman on the stage?  It is indecent for a woman to appear in public.  We must be very degenerate to permit it.  It is as certain as that my name is Dorion, that woman is the natural enemy of man, and a disgrace to human kind.”