Goodness, does it really? said one of the Brown sisters. I won’t sleep at all tonight.
The very thought makes me shiver, said the other.
They always were a militant bunch, said Mr Collins. Seeking out the heretic with a lit torch. I’d have been the first to the flame.
If only, said the reverend quietly.
And they took against Dante of all people, said Miss Everly. They set the conditions of authoritative literature, no vernacular texts for them. And that Savonarola. Encouraging the burning of nudes and portraits of women because of the temptation conveyed. Can men not control themselves, reverend?
Don’t look at me, said the reverend.
We once had a gardener who used to chase us with shears, said one of the Brown sisters.
Good God! said Miss Everly.
And which church belongs to the hounds? asked Mrs Lugg.
Santa Maria Novella is one, said Evelyn. It has rather a solemn atmosphere. I heard someone suggest it would be called stony-faced if it was a person.
One to avoid, then, said the sisters.
But you must not avoid it! said Miss Everly. You must go! You must see the chapels of Rucellai, Gondi and Strozzi!
Indeed you must, said Mr Collins.
Then we shall, said Blythe.
Just don’t yawn.
Yawn?
And Mr Collins performed a silly mime about ghost dogs entering an open mouth.
Mr Collins! said the reverend, a smile breaking through his admonishment.
We’re going to Santa Croce tomorrow morning, said Blythe.
Oh, the grace and humanity of Giotto’s— began the lady poet.
Morning light is the best time to see the frescoes, said the reverend, cutting her off. May I suggest you take your opera glasses too. To the right of the high altar is the Bardi chapel and there you will discover the fresco cycle of St Francis.
Unless you understand the relations of Giotto to St Francis and of St Francis to humanity, it will be of little interest, said Mr Lugg, reading from Ruskin’s Mornings in Florence. Could you clarify the relation, reverend?
Indeed I can, Mr Lugg. And I can do it in one word: devotion.
The Brown sisters sighed.
That sweet delectable saint preached work without money and embrace poverty. Work without pleasure and embrace chastity. Work according to instruction and embrace obedience.
Sounds ghastly, said Mr Collins, giving up on the meat. And what does tomorrow hold for you, Miss Skinner?
My day shall revolve around an Italian lesson, said Evelyn.
You are eager, said Mr Collins.
Possessive pronouns, said Evelyn.
What’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine? said Mr Collins.
Something like that.
However, when the lesson came the following morning, it was more: I am yours and you are mine.
The two women lay on the bed fully clothed, gazing into one another’s eyes. They had little time together because Livia had a crate of chickens to pluck and Evelyn, between sighs, could hear every grain fall inside that wretched hourglass. When Livia got up to leave, Evelyn felt tormented and left the room shortly after.
Had you been looking for her, you would have found her the other side of the Ponte Vecchio, seated outside a café close to the church of Santa Felicità. The south side of the river was another world, just as Miss Everly had said it was. A medieval quarter of narrow streets and soaring towers, the defensive architecture of the time for the rich and powerful. She could be alone here, she thought. Anonymous amongst the cabinet makers and saddlers and hatters.
Her drink arrived and the clink of ice snapped her out of her musing. She picked up her pencil and wrote.
Dear H.W. – may I call you Father today? Do you mind? I feel in need of a fatherly ear right now.
You once talked to me of an affliction. I was quite young, I remember, but felt grown up at the fact that you had taken me into your confidence, outlining the complexity and paradox of the human heart, before explaining the separation that was to occur between you and Mother. Looking back, I see how advanced I was for a nine-year-old.
Evelyn raised her glass and drank the vermouth. The sunlight making her squint.
I have become afflicted too （she wrote）。
When I see her walk through the doorway, or come about the corner, or appear on the stairwell, the muscles in my legs are subjected to a form of atrophy, and it takes all my willpower to remain upright. This makes me sound as if I’m ill; I am not, I have never felt better.
The world is sharp. So sharply in focus that my eyes see everything – in fact, beyond everything, if one can suspend the logic of that sentence. If you show me a painting of a bowl with citrons and figs and plums and pears, I can describe the woman who picked that fruit off the tree, and can describe her with such tenderness that I can see myself reflected in her iris, like a candle, the sole source of light. Show me a painting of a ray fish, dripping sea off a kitchen table and I’ll tell you about the man who caught it.