At this moment Hera, who had left the room, reappeared, carrying a plateful of cakes.
“What, my mother! My favorite cakes too!” exclaimed the youth.
“I kept them hidden so as to surprise thee,” replied the fond mother.
“Thou couldst not have pleased me better, my dear mother,” exclaimed Gannon, with evident appreciation.
After they had eaten the cakes, and the room was arranged for the night, Alcmaeon threw himself upon a couch. Gannon seated himself beside him, so that, upon leaning back, his head touched his father’s shoulder. Hera and Psyche sat near them, side by side.
“Now, my son,” gently commanded Alcmaeon, “describe to us the palace on the Esquiline Hill.”
“Oh, my dear father, it is like a dream,” Gannon began, in a voice filled with enthusiasm. “The meandering walk that leads from the massive iron gates to the palace is bordered with short-trimmed boxwood, over which peep dark crimson anemones, golden daffodils, purple violets, pale-blue hyacinths, and the starlike blooms of the white narcissus. Superb pine-trees interweave their branches across the walk, revealing the blue sky as through the meshes of a green net. Roofs of verdure embower pure white statues of Diana, Daphne, naiads, and dancing fauns. Fountains play sweet and endless music. Quiet pools of water, with lilies floating on the surface, are bordered by majestic firs. Carved marble benches are placed in shady nooks and corners, and rustic summer-houses here and there invite to rest. The words of Homer seem to have become living things. O my father, Maecenas, the rich minister of the Divine Augustus, well knew how to group the gifts of the gods in delightful harmony.”
“Maecenas was more Greek than Roman, my son,” said Alcmaeon. “No Roman, except the Divine Augustus, understood beauty as he did.”
“Maecenas built his palace of marble as temples are built,” continued Gannon. “Graceful columns with Corinthian capitals support the roof of the atrium, peristyle, and corridors. Some of the rooms have walls of polished marble. All are lavishly decorated with rare paintings, exquisite carvings, beautiful statues,—all the work of the deft fingers of our countrymen. It is not surpassed even by the palace of Tiberius, which I described to thee last week.”
“As if by magic, my son,” said Alcmaeon, proudly, “Greek hands have congealed and fixed forever the ecstasies of the affections. Painting, sculpture, and architecture, O Gannon, are the gifts of the Greeks to the world.”