iam redit et Virgo, redeunt Saturnia regna;
iam nova progenies caelo demittitur alto.
“Well?” he said when he’d finished.
The children remained silent.
“Could it be Horace?” asked one of them timidly.
“It could be,” replied the man, “but it isn’t. Come on, try again. Anyone dare translate it?”
The applicant, observing the scene from behind the heavy curtains that hung on either side of a pair of lace panels, thought the question far too difficult. The children were too young to recognize a work from a single quotation, especially when the quotation was in Latin. Despite having read Virgil with pleasure, Miss Prim did not approve of the game; she didn’t approve at all.
“I’ll give you some help,” the voice continued from within the wing chair. “These lines were dedicated to a Roman politician from the early years of the Empire. A politician who became friends with some of the great poets we’ve studied, such as Horace. One of those friends dedicated the lines to him for having mediated in the Treaty of Brundisium which, as you know, or should know, put an end to the conflict between Antony and Octavian.”
The man fell silent and stared at the children (or so Miss Prim imagined, from her hiding place) with a look of mute interrogation that received no response. Only one of the dogs, as if wanting to show its interest in the historical event, got up slowly and lazily, lumbered nearer to the fireplace and lay down once again on the rug.
“We studied all this, absolutely all of it, last spring,” complained the man.
The children, still looking down, chewed their pens thoughtfully, swung their feet nonchalantly, rested their cheeks on their hands.
“Pack of ignorant brutes,” insisted the voice irritably. “What on earth’s the matter with you today?”
Miss Prim felt a wave of heat rise to her face. She had no experience whatsoever with children, this was true, but she was a mistress of the art of delicacy. Miss Prim firmly believed that delicacy was the force that drove the universe. Where it was lacking, she knew, the world became gloomy and dark. Indignant at the scene and growing a little stiff, she tried to shift quietly in her hiding place, but a sudden growl from one of the dogs made her stop.
“All right,” the man’s voice softened. “Let’s try again with something a bit easier.”
“By the same author?” asked a little girl.
“By exactly the same author. Ready? I’m only going to recite half a line.”
...facilis descensus Averno...
A sudden forest of raised hands and noisy cries of triumph showed that this time the pupils knew the answer.
“Virgil!” they shouted in a shrill chorus. “It’s theAeneid!”
“That’s right, that’s right,” laughed the man, pleased. “And what I recited before was from theEclogues,Eclogue IV. Therefore, the Roman statesman who was a friend of Virgil and Horace is...”
Before any of the children could answer, Miss Prim’s clear, melodious voice came from behind the curtains, filling the room.
“Asinius Pollio, of course.”
Fifteen childish heads turned in unison toward the window. Surprised by her boldness, the applicant instinctively retreated. Only a sense of her own dignity and the importance of the reason for her presence stopped her from running away.
“I apologize deeply for making such an entrance,” she said, advancing slowly to the center of the room. “I know I should have announced myself, but the boy who answered the front door left me alone on the porch. So I thought I’d look in here, and that’s when I heard you talking about Virgil and Pollio. I really am terribly sorry, sir.”
“Are you here about the post of librarian?”
The man spoke gently, and seemed quite unconcerned by the fact that a stranger had just burst into his sitting room. A gentleman, thought Miss Prim admiringly. A true gentleman. Maybe she’d judged him too hastily; and she’d undoubtedly been rash.
“Yes, sir. I rang this morning. I came about your advertisement.”
The man in the wing chair stared at her for a few seconds, long enough to realize that the woman standing before him was too young for the job.
“Have you brought your CV, Miss...?”
“Prim. Miss Prudencia Prim,” she replied, adding apologetically: “It’s an unusual name, I know.”
