Such courtesy was, for Shirley, of a piece with local respect for the arts. She recalled sending, in 1973, a congratulatory telegram from the Capri post office to Patrick White on hearing of his Nobel Prize: “The cable boys (far from the imposing stern professional ethics of indifference to message) were thrilled, having just read the news in the papers. ‘Dev’esser bravissimo! Auguri!’ Auguri indeed.” In early 1984 Francis recorded in his diary an episode in Rome when their taxi driver began reciting poetry as he drove them back to the Hassler hotel one evening. Shirley of course joined him, and together they recited works by “Palazzeschi, Pascoli, Foscolo,” and then, inevitably, Leopardi: “all of Silvia, much of La Sera, L’Infinito, La Ginestra, Pastore Errante, Vaghe Stelle. Beautiful. His name Ernesto. (Spoke of Wilde). Refuses payment absolutely. Boy at Hassler door says, ‘It is only among simple people that there is poetry now.’ Both, all three, near tears.” There were many such moments: “Lively, youngish taxi driver, finding we were writers: I write too, but with my mouth. And with my hands.” They consulted a doctor in Naples about a sprained arm, “a charming elderly orthopaedist, man of culture, who has remained faithful to the Futurists and himself paints in that manner.” They found that he had come to meet their ferry from Capri, and then refused payment. Francis observed, “These experiences make you feel you never want to leave this place.”