“Virgil! Which way have you come, then?”
“Over the hills of Tibur from Maecenas.”
“Welcome, wanderer, whichever way you have come! Sit down—you must be tired—in my hemicyklion, under the olives I planted myself, while the spits turn, and they ply the chopping-knife. Here you see my plot of land which represents the world to me.”
Their first greetings and questions were over, and the two friends sat down to the table. The host was certainly an Epicurean or votary of pleasure; but in order to be able to enjoy, one must be moderate, and the meal, judging by Roman customs, was quite a frugal one, but simple and brilliant. Then the cups were passed round, and the wine awoke memories in spite of its supposed lethal capacity of quenching them.
“Well, you were in the war, friend?” began Virgil.
“Yes, and I fled disgracefully, as you know.”
“I have read so in one of your poems, but it is said not to be true, and you have slandered yourself.”
“Have I? Perhaps! One talks nonsense when one writes.”
“You poet, do you remember how you asked me in Athens whether it were difficult? How did you come to write?”
“I needed money!”