The light was beautiful. Faint shadows whispering. Sunlight caught the trefoils above: Fortitude. Temperance. Justice and Prudence. The four cardinal virtues.
A breeze followed her into the Loggia dei Lanzi like a spectral presence and led her to Giovanni da Bologna’s Rape of the Sabine Woman. The statue startled her. Bewitched her. Coaxed from her equal feelings of shame and exhilaration.
Her gaze rested on the foot, the curve, the rounded heel, the hand pressing onto the woman’s buttocks, the flesh yielding. But it wasn’t flesh, was it? It was marble. She took out her notebook and drew a simple sketch. No shading needed, just lines that traced the liquidity of movement, mapping the erotic to the horror. This execution of genius.
She was shown to a table where she ordered a quina-vermouth. She felt great freedom sitting outside. She rolled up the sleeves of her blouse, her skin olive like her mother’s. She was about to begin a postcard to her father but thought it better to practise in her notebook first, before committing words to the back of the Duomo. She looked across once again to the statue of the Sabine woman.
Miss Skinner?
Evelyn turned. The flare of sun caught her eyes. She raised her hand.
Oh, Mr Collins.
May I?
Please do.
Mr Collins sat and gestured to the waiter for the same drink as Evelyn.
I’ve just been to the Uffizi with Miss Everly. She’s quite the guide. I’ll never look at a pomegranate in the same way again.
Evelyn laughed.
She said you came over faint in one of the sculpture rooms?
Has she told everyone?
No. Just me, said Mr Collins.
Grazie, signore, said Mr Collins as his drink was placed in front of him.
Was Miss Everly worried? said Evelyn.
Not at all. I think she thought something quite marvellous had happened to you.
Like what?
She didn’t say. You know how she is. She gets that look upon her face as if – oh, you know. As if a secret has been unearthed, said Mr Collins and he looked at her intently. Has something happened to you, Miss Skinner?
I’m not sure, she said.
Good Lord! It’s not love, is it?
Of course not, said Evelyn crossly. Crossly enough for Mr Collins to reach for his drink, smile, and to change the subject.
A toast, he said.
They raised their glasses.
Incipit vita nuova, he said.
So begins a new life, said Evelyn.
Clink.
Do people think Miss Everly’s a good poet? asked Evelyn.
A line appeared between Mr Collins’s eyebrows. He said, I think people at the Simi think she’s faintly ridiculous.
I think she’s clever.
I do too. And I think she’s thoughtful and thought-provoking. And funny, too. Is she a good poet? Yes. There is humanity in her work. And nonconformity. But she will remain without glory.
Why?
Because the world doesn’t know what to do with her.
But I want the world to know!
You are a romantic, Miss Skinner.
I’ll shout her name from the highest peaks!
Mr Collins picked up his glass and drank. （The sound of ice hitting the side.） He said, The worthiest poets have remained uncrowned / Till death has bleached their foreheads to the bone. Not everyone can be Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Constance knows that. And the fact she’s not doesn’t render her efforts unimportant. Forty, fifty years hence, she may be garlanded. But I, for one, enjoy her mind.
Evelyn watched the softness in his face as he spoke. The cleverness, the cynicism of the dining room had been replaced by admiration. She liked this man more than the evening version.
Mr Collins looked down at the postcards.
H. W.?
My fa—
Of course, of course, your father.
He likes me to call him H. W., rather than Father, because Father makes him feel old. He has quite a young mistress at the moment. Please don’t tell anyone, Mr Collins. We are an unconventional family, and Evelyn reached for her drink.
David. Ponte Vecchio. Il Duomo. And apart from your father, who will the lucky recipients be?
I’m not sure yet. What I want to say won’t fit on a postcard.
What do you want to say?
Oh, so much. Is it wrong to admire beauty when it is the subject of such horror?
The Sabine woman?
Yes.
Mr Collins thought for a moment. He said, It’s calculated and erotic in equal measure. The male is enjoying her terror. The artist our discomfort. （The sound of ice as he swirled his drink.） Imagine, Miss Skinner, imagine Giovanni da Bologna is with us at this table. What do you think he’s doing?
Drinking?
What else?
Listening to us. Enjoying being the centre of attention.