Evelyn agreed. But only if Constance called her Evelyn.
Evelyn dabbed her mouth with a handkerchief and said, The other night, I heard you talking to Mrs Lugg about a nun who was an artist.
Ah yes. Suor Plautilla.
That’s her.
Vasari wrote about her. She must have been important for him to do that.
Mrs Lugg seemed rather dismissive of her, said Evelyn.
Well, follow the river to its source and you’ll find the husband.
Evelyn smiled. You said Suor Plautilla was prolific.
Oh, she was. Fell into oblivion because of her gender. It’s a tired old story that one, I’m afraid, my dear. I am one of the few who have ever seen her painting of the Last Supper, which was a first. For a woman, I mean. Largest painting in the world by an early female artist. Nearly as big as Leonardo’s. Top left-hand corner her signature and also the words: Orate pro pictura – pray for the paintress. A simple acknowledgement of who she was.
Where can I see it, Constance?
You can’t. Rumour has it it’s still somewhere in the monastery at Santa Maria Novella. In the refectory, perhaps? Other than that, I really don’t know.
That’s awful.
Isn’t it? If we don’t know where all her works are, what hope for the others?
Were there others?
Oh yes. The choice for the educated woman was clear and stark. Marriage and no creative expression. Or convent and creative expression. So, women entered the convent in order to paint. Such was the sacrifice. But when have women not sacrificed to live as they feel? Not all of us will embrace men, marriage, motherhood. Nor should we. We have one life, my dear Evelyn, one life and we must use it well.
Night-time at the Simi, and it was the last dinner together for the English group. Or as Miss Everly liked to call it, ‘our Ultima Cena’。
There were two conversations happening as usual across the table, and when the evening had moved on to the safer tectonic plates of cheese, Miss Everly leant across to Mrs Lugg and said, Are you feeling better, my dear?
Indeed, I am, Miss Everly.
Not to everyone’s taste is the European cuisine. One must gird oneself for an adventure.
So I’ve been told, said Mrs Lugg.
I thought of you when I penned this little ode, said Miss Everly.
Let me hear too, Miss Everly, said Evelyn, leaning in.
Miss Everly said:
To eat parts that we’d consign to waste
Takes courage and great faith.
A trotter to one
Un zampone to another.
A feast by any other name.
But even I draw the line at brain.
Mrs Lugg felt something rise in her throat. She held her stomach.
Bravo, Miss Everly! said Evelyn. Such fun.
Just a little silliness. Goat! said Miss Everly, holding up a stinking plate of blue formaggio di capra. Anyone for goat?
Culture and decency, said the reverend, refilling the wine glasses.
Culture and decency do not begin and end at the white cliffs of Dover, said Mr Collins.
You are not a patriot, obviously, said the reverend.
Nothing to do with patriotism. I believe in the unity of the world. I believe in the power of people working together.
Piffle, said the reverend and he muttered, Socialist, quietly to the elderly twins who were morphing into one another in front of Evelyn’s eyes.
We shall be at war one day with your European brothers, as you call them, Mr Collins. It’s inevitable, said Mr Lugg. They’re not like us. But they want what we have.
And do we not want what they have, Mr Lugg? Michelangelo? Dante? Beauty? Wine on a sun-drenched terrace? Villas nestled in the hills going for a song?
Mr Lugg ignored Mr Collins and reached for a plate of stinking goat’s cheese.
Yes, but will you fight? said the reverend, bringing the conversation back to British imperialism. It’s a simple question.
For what cause? said Mr Collins.
Cause is irrelevant.
Cause is not irrelevant.
To teach another nation a lesson, then, said the reverend.
A nation is not a person. And so I will not.
Humph, said the reverend.
The sound of a teaspoon against a glass and Mr Lugg rose from the table.
Our last night with you all, said Mr Lugg. You’ve all been so kind to us—
Nonsense!
Especially to my wife. Thank you one and all, and he raised his glass. And yet, we’ve seen so little of the city during this trying time. For our last day tomorrow, what would you recommend, reverend?
The reverend thought about the question at hand. He milked the silence and the attention.
I think you should take your wife up the Duomo, he said.
Evelyn reached for her napkin and covered her mouth. Mr Collins began to snigger. Miss Everly busied herself with the cheese.