Gabriel’s Inferno Trilogy by Sylvain Reynard Page 0,251

ruby lips parted into an encouraging smile. Instantly, Gabriel exhaled.

“Botticelli’s muse is a saint, a lover, and a friend, not a cardboard cut-out of a woman or an adolescent fantasy. She is real, she is complicated, and she is endlessly fascinating. A woman to worship.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, the preciseness of the Greek language allows one to speak more perspicuously about the different kinds of love. A modern treatment of this discussion can be found in C.S. Lewis’s The Four Loves, if you’re interested.”

He cleared his throat and smiled winningly at the room.

“Finally, consider the painting to my left, Primavera. One might expect to see the face of Botticelli’s muse reflected in the central figure in the painting. But consider the face of Flora, on the right. Once again, she bears a similarity to Beatrice, Venus, and the Madonna.

“Surprisingly, Flora appears twice in the painting. As we move from the center of the painting to the right, you see Flora pregnant, swollen with Zephyr’s child. Zephyr is on the far right, hovering amongst the orange trees with the second depiction of Flora, as a virgin nymph. Her expression is marked with fear. She’s fleeing the arms of her prospective lover and gazing back at him in panic. However, when she’s pregnant, her countenance is serene. Her fear is replaced by contentment.”

Julia flushed as she remembered how kind Gabriel had been to her the night before. He’d been tender and gentle, and in his arms she’d felt worshipped. Remembering the myth of Flora and Zephyr she shuddered, wishing that all lovers would be as tender with their virgin partners as Gabriel had been.

“Flora represents the consummation of physical love and motherhood. She is the ideal of storge, or familial love, the kind of love manifested from a mother to her child, and between lovers who share a commitment that is not based solely on sex or pleasure, but is between married partners.”

No one but Julia noticed the white knuckling as he held the edge of the podium with two hands. No one but Julia noticed the slight tremor in his voice as he pronounced the words pregnant and motherhood.

His eyebrows furrowed as he collected himself, shuffling his papers for a moment. Julia recognized his vulnerability for what it was, fighting the urge to go to him and embrace him. She began tapping one of her tangerine colored stiletto heels in anticipation.

Gabriel caught her sudden movement and swallowed hard before continuing. “In early writings on Primavera, Flora was asserted to be the likeness of La Bella Simonetta, Botticelli’s muse. If that is true, just on visual inspection alone, we can assert that Simonetta is the inspiration for Beatrice, Venus, and the Madonna, for all four ladies share the same face.

“Thus, we have the icons of agape, eros, philia, and storge all represented by a single face, a single woman—Simonetta. To put this another way, one could argue that Botticelli sees in his beloved muse all four types of love and all four ideals of womanhood: saint, lover, friend, and spouse.

“In the end, however, I must return to where we began, with Beatrice. It is no accident that the inspiration behind one of Italy’s best-known literary works was given Simonetta’s features. Faced with such beauty, such goodness, what man wouldn’t want her by his side not just for a season, but for a lifetime?”

He gazed around the room gravely.

“To quote the Poet, now your blessedness appears. Thank you.”

As Gabriel ended his lecture to enthusiastic applause, Julia blinked back tears, overcome with emotion.

Dottore Vitali retook the podium, extending his thanks to Professor Emerson for an illuminating discussion. A small group of local politicians presented him with several gifts, including a medallion depicting the city of Florence.

Julia remained in her seat for as long as possible, hoping that Gabriel would come to her. But he was deluged with members of the audience, including several officious art historians.

(For it was considered brash if not egotistical for a mere literature professor to analyze the crown jewels of the Uffizi’s collection.)

Reluctantly, she trailed behind him as several members of the media plied him with questions. She caught his eye, and he gave her a tight, apologetic smile before posing for pictures.

Frustrated, she wandered around some of the adjoining rooms, admiring the paintings until she arrived at one of her favorites, Leonardo da Vinci’s Annunciation. She was standing close, too close really, noting the detail in the marble pillar, when a voice sounded in her ear in Italian.

“You