He sat near his cloak, upon the marble seat, and
beside him sat Monna Giuliana, who was all in white save for the gold
girdle at her waist.
Caro, himself, stood to read, his bulky manuscript in his hands. Against
the sundial, facing the poet, leaned the tall figure of Messer Fifanti, his
bald head uncovered and shining humidly, his eyes ever and anon stealing a
look at his splendid wife where she sat so demurely at the prelate's side.
Myself, I lay on the grass near the pond, my hand trailing in the cool
water, and at first I was not greatly interested. The heat of the day and
the circumstance that we had dined, when played upon by the poet's booming
and somewhat monotonous voice, had a lulling effect from which I was in
danger of falling asleep. But anon, as the narrative warmed and quickened,
the danger was well overpast. I was very wide-awake, my pulses throbbing,
my imagination all on fire. I sat up and listened with an enthralled
attention, unconscious of everything and everybody, unconscious even of the
very voice of the reader, intent only upon the amazing, tragic matter that
he read.
For it happened that this was the Fourth Book of the Aeneid, and the most
lamentable, heartrending story of Dido's love for Aeneas, of his desertion
of her, of her grief and death upon the funeral pyre.
Pages:
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135