The landscape extends far behind, leaving him alone in the wilderness, but at home in a rich and ample world. Poyet's land is green and inexhaustible, his city the towers of princes and kings. Laid out on simple perspective lines, they function as a stage for a courtier's restrained but command performance. The bright red of Jerome's cloak, the cloak of a cardinal, projects forward to create the stage apron. Cast aside on the ground, it may bare him in contrition, but somehow even a hair shirt looks warming, and the thorns that should press at his ankles stand before him like a shield.
Lovers get off easy, too, like ones in sitcoms who get all the good lines.
In a particularly fine, intact Book of Hours, they deal with the seasons as comfortably as with each other. Exactly like the solo actors in Poyet's religious scene, the man and woman get sufficient space to keep out of each other's way. They come close enough to flirt, but their eyes say little, and their gestures move freely afield. Forget the moral of this book. If the woman fears the play getting out of hand, or the man fears rejection, the viewer need not fear it for them.