Oh, not at all, said Evelyn.
Another Annunciazione! said Miss Everly. Hello, Gabriel; hello, Mary. Ah, and here we are. La Tribuna. Scusate, Americani scusate. （They do hog the space somewhat.） The most important jewels of the Medici collection, Miss Skinner. A dome of wonder encrusted with thousands of precious shells, whispering of distant shores, of trade and commerce. A marble floor, the red velvet cloak of walls. How many poems, how many declarations of love, how many promises to better one’s soul, has such a room elicited? Where beauty and gratitude go together. This is how we become enriched, Miss Skinner.
The confinement of the room sent them in opposite directions, and Evelyn felt glad to have a moment to herself. The sight of so much female flesh was having a very positive effect on her body, although a dizzying one on her mind. There were two Venuses here to inflame her heart: the sloping back of Carracci’s Venus, the top of two pert buttocks emerging from a fallen robe. Although the satyr exposing his tongue made her feel slightly self-conscious and she moved away.
Miss Everly came back to her side to view Titian’s Venus of Urbino. She said, It used to be covered by a sliding panel to conceal her nudity. Such a waste.
Evelyn was glad it wasn’t now.
In the orientale corridor, they happened across a painting class. Nothing to see here but childish enthusiasm, said Miss Everly as she waved Evelyn past a Rubens at a brisk pace. They overtook a dawdling group of Americans murmuring about Caravag-eeo and Miss Everly whispered, Pronunc-iation as she sidled past them. Ever since Henry James, they think they own the place, she said. And then she led Evelyn into a room and with a grand flourish said, Caravaggio. As if she had discovered the artist herself.
What do you feel, Miss Skinner?
Evelyn wondered if there was a right answer.
Horror. Beauty, she said.
Indeed. And here, look – follow the narrative of light to this scene beyond. Oh no, oh no, said Miss Everly, suddenly interrupted by an American to the far left of her. What that man’s saying is not right at all. Caravaggio came out of Mannerism and stepped right back into reformed classicism, full of rage and drama. He was a slap in the face to his peers. See here— Shadows, pain, dark, light. Repeat, Miss Skinner.
Shadows, pain, dark, light.
Correct, said Miss Everly and they marched to the next room, the mantra startling a nearby tourist, who looked for the reference in their well-thumbed Baedeker.
When weariness and lunch had overtaken them, they took rest by an open window and let their eyes fall uncritically across the city.
Could only be Florence, couldn’t it? said Miss Everly. Burnt umber, ochre, cream. Brown, grey shutters. The Arno always green. Such is the palette of Florence.
It’s my first time in this city, Miss Everly. There’s so much to see and I wonder if I have enough time and— Miss Everly raised her hand. You will be back, my dear. We all come back.
Do you remember your first time?
Do I indeed! Like Saul falling from his horse and becoming Paul. It changed me. The city spoke to me in a language I didn’t understand, and yet in here – she clasped her chest – I knew exactly what it was saying to me.
Which was?
Miss Everly held up four fingers. She said, I. Will. Astonish. You. （With the ‘you’， she gently pressed her finger against Evelyn’s heart.） Open up. Things happen here, if you let them. Wonderful things, Miss Skinner. When you least expect it. Are you ready, my dear, for things to happen?
Oh yes, said Evelyn. I’ve never been more ready.
‘Cherish the body, and the soul will follow.’
Did you write that?
Alas no. The Greeks, probably. Sounds like the Greeks.
Their last port of call was a sculpture room. No one of quality here, said Miss Everly.
True, it was an exit room, but it was in this room that Evelyn became overcome. Miss Skinner’s voice in the background. Maybe Cleopatra, she said. Ariadne, perhaps? It might even be Sappho … Odd arm, though.
But Evelyn didn’t care about the arm or who sculpted it or who the subject was. It was the most beautiful woman, prostrate and naked and that was all it needed to be. The whoosh of the sea crashed inside her ears. Breasts peeking from the folds of marble – the nipples so real – for the sole tantalising effect of making Evelyn feel alive. Awake. Vital. And true.
Miss Skinner! You’ve gone quite pale. Make way, make way! Scusate, Americano, please scusate! Out of the way immediately, if you please. Come, take my arm, Miss Skinner. Follow me. It’s the beauty. It’s all this beauty. We English are at the mercy of the muse. I took to my bed for days when I first set eyes on the Del Sarto.