We started in the evening, and less than two hours we got home. The moon which shone brightly upon us prevented me making any attempts on Clementine, who had put up her feet in order that she might be able to hold her little nephew with more ease. The pretty mother could not help thanking me warmly for the pleasure I had given them; I was a universal favourite with them all.
We did not feel inclined to eat any supper, and therefore retired to our apartments; and I accompanied Clementine, who told me that she was ashamed at not knowing anything about the “AEneid.”
“Vigi will bring his translation of the thirteenth book, and I shall not know a word about it.”
I comforted her by telling her that we would read the fine translation by Annibale Caro that very night. It was amongst her books, as also the version by Anguilara, Ovid’s Metamorphoses, and Marchetti’s Lucreece.
“But I wanted to read the Pastor Fido.”
“We are in a hurry; we must read that another time.”
“I will follow your advice in all things, my dear Iolas.”
“That will make me happy, dearest Hebe.”
We spent the night in reading that magnificent translation in Italian blank verse, but the reading was often interrupted by my pupil’s laughter when we came to some rather ticklish passage. She was highly amused by the account of the chance which gave AEneas an opportunity of proving his love for Dido in a very inconvenient place, and still more, when Dido, complaining of the son of Priam’s treachery, says,—
“I might still pardon you if, before abandoning me, you had left me a little AEneas to play about these halls.”