There was a malicious sort of teasing pleasure in running away from
Norman, mingled with a shrinking modesty; and, besides, he knew the
way to the Capitol, if he chose to follow, and knew she was to be there
alone. So, on the whole, Mae went off with a blissful heart.
As she sat down in that celebrated room, immortalized by the Gladiator,
the Faun and the Antinous, scales seemed to fall from her eyes and a
weight from her heart. Life meant something more than the mere play she
delighted in, or the labor she despised. She took it in in this way. She
realized, first of all, the enduringness of the marbles. They had stood,
they will stand, for thousands of years. What have stood? What will
stand? Idle blocks of stone, without form or meaning, or simply three
beautiful shapes? No; three souls, thinks Mae, three real people,
and she looks at the abiding faun, freedom and joy of the Satyr, the
continual sentimental sadness of the Antinous, and the perpetual brave
death-struggle of the Gladiator.
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