Man Bitten by a Snake
There was no escape for Angus Lordie as Sister Maria-fiore dei Fiori di Montagna began to explain to him about the agenda she had received for the meeting she would be attending later that day. The Trustees of the National Gallery of Scotland, amongst whose number she now counted herself, were concerned with the larger issues affecting Scotland’s national collection. These included requests for the loan of paintings to other galleries, issues of conservation, outreach initiatives, and so on: on all of these the trustees might be called to guide the curatorial staff in their task of bringing art to the public. Sister MariaFiore’s qualifications for this role were not immediately apparent, but the success that she had enjoyed since she first burst on Scotland’s social scene had carried her to this, and other heights, unchallenged. There were few photographs in the social columns of Scottish Field or Edinburgh Life that did not feature the seemingly ubiquitous Italian nun: there she was at the release of a new single malt from Ardnamurchan Distillery, her nose buried appreciatively in a whisky glass; there she was at the Annual Dance of the Scottish Motor Trade Association, dancing the Gay Gordons with prominent motor trade figures; there she was at the Scottish Publishers’ Association Annual Reception, engaged in earnest conversation with Val Mcdermid and Ian Rankin. She was everywhere! It was no surprise, then, to anybody that a small announce - ment should appear in The Scotsman to the effect that Sister Maria-fiore dei Fiori di Montagna, an acknowledged authority on the Sienese School, should have been appointed a trustee of the National Gallery of Scotland. To call her an authority was generous – in the extreme – as her only pub - lication had been a minor note, written in the brief period she spent as a postgraduate student and published in the Rivista d’arte, on the influence of Ambrogio Lorenzetti on the later work of Domenico Becafumi, a subject on which nobody else had written anything before and indeed nothing had been written subsequently. But publication is not everything, and those who have never expressed a view on a subject may sometimes enjoy a reputation based on what it is thought they might know, and in the case of Sister Maria-fiore dei Fiori di Montagna what she might lack in knowledge she certainly made up for in enthusiasm. And of course her facility with aphorisms, unrivalled in all Scotland, gave her remarks an additional gravitas that all agreed added to the weight – and the sonority – of the Board of Trustees’ published minutes.
Now she said to Angus, “The trustees will be called in to pronounce on warnings this afternoon. Should our paintings – or some of them – be accompanied by a public warning?”
Angus frowned. “A warning? About what?”
“A warning that the more emotionally sensitive members of the public might be distressed by what they see.”
Angus, in spite of himself and his desire to get back to his flat, was intrigued. “Do you mean that there’ll be notices?” he asked. “Like those Government health warnings? That sort of thing?”
Sister Maria-fiore dei Fiori di Montagna, pleased to have engaged his attention, nodded gravely. “That is what some people are proposing. We have had several concerned members of the public making the same point. There have been letters in The Scotsman too. That is why we are to discuss the matter at the trustees’ meeting.”
Angus rolled his eyes. “I can hardly believe this. I really can’t.” He had heard about the ban on boiled sweets being thrown to children from the pantomime stage – on the grounds that somebody might be hurt – but this was a new, and shocking instance of that overly-cautious mindset.
Sister Maria-fiore dei Fiori di Montagna gave more details. “It has all arisen over a painting we borrowed from the National Gallery in London,” she said. “We lent them one of our Poussin Sacraments and they lent us their Landscape with Man killed by a Snake. I suspect you know the painting.”
Angus did. He liked Poussin, in spite of the neo-classical coldness, and had spent two full hours some years ago while on a visit to London, standing in front of that particular painting, reflecting on the vague sense of menace it conveyed.
“It’s a very powerful painting,” said Sister Maria-fiore. “There is a whole book devoted to it, you know – Professor Clark’s Sight of Death.”
Angus nodded. “I don’t know that book.” He paused before continuing. “But there are so many books I don’t know, I suppose.”
The comment had come out unplanned, and he had not thought much about it before he spoke. But it seemed that a conversation with the aphoristically-inclined Italian nun produced just such reflections. There were so many books; there was so little time.
Sister Maria-fiore absorbed this, and Angus thought that he had probably prompted another aphorism. But she returned to her theme. “It has been suggested that we identify our most disturbing paintings and put a warning sign in front of them. A red triangle, I believe. Or we could simply have a large notice outside the gallery warning people that some of our paintings might upset them.” She paused. “I believe universities have to do this now. They have to warn their students if they are going to be asked to read anything upsetting.”
Angus sighed. What could one do, he thought, but sigh? He looked at his watch. They could talk for hours, he imagined, about intellectual freedom, and maturity, and tolerance, and related topics, while all the time the darkness closed in, but he had to get back to Domenica.
“I’m sorry,” he said to Sister Maria-fiore dei Fiori di Montagna, “but I must get back to my flat. Nothing to do with Poussin, but we have had our own disturbing news.”
Sister Maria-fiore looked anxious. “I’m very sorry to hear that. We like to hear things that are unexpected; we do not like things that are not expected, and …”
Angus cut short the aphorism. “Yes, yes. My dog, Cyril, found an old skull, you see – a potentially interesting one – and now it has, alas, been lost.”
Sister Maria-fiore frowned. “How funny,” she said. “Because I was on the 23 bus yesterday, I think it was, and I found something that looked a bit like a skull. It couldn’t have been, though. Not on a bus.” Angus froze. “And?”
“Oh, I threw it in our kitchen bin,” said Sister Maria-fiore. “It was muddy and messy. It was the best place for it, in my view, Mr Lordie.” She paused and then continued, “It’s probably still there, come to think of it.” There was a further pause. “What we dispose of we do not always dispose of, Mr Lordie.”
© 2020 Alexander Mccall Smith Available in book form from November as A Promise of Ankles (hbk, £16.99). The Peppermint Tea Chronicles is available now in paperback.