Awakening of Miss Prim

by Natalia Sanmartin Fenollera

“I’m relieved to hear it.”

  “I’m sure you are,” he said with a smile.

  There was a lengthy silence in the room, broken only by the distant laughter of children in the garden.

  “I have to say I was very surprised that the children are named after numbers,” she said at last, in an attempt to navigate into less controversial waters.

  “Actually they’re nicknames,” he laughed, “and they have a lot to do with my inability to remember birthdays. Septimus was born in September, his brother Deka in October, Teseris in April, and Eksi, the youngest, in June. I’m a lover of classical languages, and this system has helped get me out of a fix more than once.”

  As he spoke he gestured at the disorder in the room. A seemingly infinite quantity of books was piled on tables and shelves two, three, and even sometimes four rows deep among towering stacks of papers, old maps, fossils, mineral specimens, and seashells.

  “I’m afraid the state of my library tells you all you need to know about my organizational abilities.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not intimidated by mess.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it. But I bet it bothers you.”

  Miss Prim didn’t know what to say and, once again, chose to change the subject.

  “Young Teseris says she paints icons from memory.”

  “But you don’t believe her.”

  “Are you implying that I should?”

  The man said nothing, simply going to the bookshelves and replacing the heavy leather-bound volume. Then he went over to the fireplace, picked up a notebook from the mantelpiece, and handed it to her.

  “This is a list of all the books in the library. It’s arranged by author and was drawn up by the previous librarian. If you’re not feeling too tired, I’d like you to take a look at it this evening, so that you’re ready tomorrow for me to explain what I want you to do with this dusty old chaos. How does that sound?”

  Miss Prim would have liked to carry on chatting, but she realized that for her new employer the conversation had reached its conclusion.

  “That sounds perfect.”

  “Wonderful. Supper is at nine and breakfast at eight.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d rather have my main meals in my room. I can cook myself something simple and take it upstairs.”

  “I’ll have your meals taken up to you from the kitchen, Miss Prim. As far as feeding people is concerned, we run a tight ship in this house. I hope you sleep well on your first night here,” he said, holding out his hand.

  She was tempted to object. She disliked the idea of a man who was a virtual stranger assuming the right to decide how, what, and when she should eat. She disliked that domineering way of having the last word.

  “Good night, sir,” she said meekly before going upstairs.

  3

  Miss Prim wasn’t sure whether the crowing of the cockerel had woken her or if she’d been startled awake by a troubled dream. She’d been at the house almost three weeks, but still she felt disoriented every time she woke. Drowsy, she stretched lazily beneath the sheets and looked over at the clock. She had two hours before she had to get up and start work. She sighed with relief—up here she was safe. Safe from peculiar, incomprehensible orders, sudden smiles that in fact heralded yet more orders, disconcerting looks, questions whose ultimate meaning she couldn’t fathom. Was he making fun of her? Actually he seemed to be studying her, which was almost more annoying.

  Still half asleep, she glanced at the clock again. She didn’t want to bump into him and the children on their way to or back from the abbey. Miss Prim had always considered herself an open-minded woman, but she didn’t approve of forcing four youngsters to trudge to a monastery every morning before breakfast. True, on their return they did seem particularly cheerful, despite the long walk in the chill morning air on an empty stomach. But of course she knew that there were many ways of influencing children.

  When she left the house half an hour later, the sun was already growing warm. She made her way quickly through the garden and opened the wrought-iron gate, which creaked long and loud. Why did the man refuse to repair anything? Miss Prim loved neatness, she loved beauty, and because she loved it, it bothered her to see the rusty gate, it saddened her that the paintings were shabby and in need of restoration, it offended her to find butter-stained incunabula in the greenhouse.

  “The man’s hopeless,” she muttered grumpily.

  Instead of taking the road, she decided to turn right and follow the narrow path to the village, cutting across fields and through a wood. That morning she urgently needed to buy notebooks and labels. The day before, she had had a small disagreement with her employer, the fifth since her arrival at the house. He’d come into the library and declared that he didn’t want her to use a computer to catalogue the books.

  “Very well, if that’s what you want, I won’t,” replied Miss Prim with forced humility.

  He’d added that he was against typewriters too, however old or dusty.

  “Well, I won’t be asking for one,” she muttered between pursed lips.

  And that’s when she couldn’t help saying: “Maybe you’d like me to use a quill pen to catalogue the books?”

  He had greeted her sarcasm with a pleasant smile of exquisite gentlemanliness and admirable refinement. But after three weeks at the house, Miss Prim was now perfectly well aware that his hypnotic masculine courtesy only served to get her to do things.

  “If you insist on such archaic methods, I can do it all by hand, but I’m warning you I’ll need labels. I won’t compromise on this point. It’s a question of method, and a librarian without method is not a librarian.”

  “My dear Miss Prim,” he’d said, “you may use all the labels you wish, of course you may. All I ask is that you don’t use the kind that glow in the dark. I don’t have anything against colored labels, nothing at all, but I don’t think the sermons of St. Bonaventure should be catalogued in lime green, or the works of Virgil in fluorescent pink.”

  The librarian had found this reply deeply insulting. With eyes blazing and her noble nose pointed skyward, she found herself explaining that she had never used luminous labels; a professional such as herself would not handle such materials; she didn’t have to be told that a library like this was not the place for garish stickers. And then he’d laughed at her and said something even more offensive.

  “Come now, Prudencia, I was only joking, no need to be so regal. You look just like Liberty leading the People.”

  Flushing at the memory, Miss Prim’s train of thought was interrupted by the need to brush aside the brambles that were blocking her path. She was about to leave behind the last stand of trees when she heard familiar voices. In the middle of a large clearing, seated on the grass, the two girls were animatedly watching their brothers fight with what looked like oars or wooden poles. She crouched behind some bushes so as to watch without being seen. The boys were wearing old fencing masks, but they afforded little protection. Once again she wondered if her employer was in his right mind. He was standing in the middle of the clearing, issuing precise instructions on battle strategy to the combatants.

  “Typical,” she muttered contemptuously from her hiding place. “First teach the children to fight and take them to church second.”

  “He’s not mad, if that’s what you’re thinking. And don’t worry, he’d never do anything to endanger the children.”

  Miss Prim whirled around in surprise and came face-to-face with a tall, elderly, smiling man.

  “Who are you?” she asked, wondering if she should emerge from the undergrowth or whether it was safer to stay where she was.

  “I’m sorry if I surprised you. You’re staying at the house sorting out the library, aren’t you? Miss Prim, I believe.”

  She nodded, scrutinizing the man discreetly.

  “I’m an old friend of the family. I’ve known them all practically since they were born. If he’s like a father to them, I’m like a grandfather.”

&nb
sp; “Delighted to meet you, Mr. . . . ”

  “Horacio Delàs. Please, call me Horacio.”

  Miss Prim thanked him for this courtesy, and then indicated the children.

  “Could you tell me, Horacio, what on earth he is up to? Training them for war?”

  “My dear, I’ve heard that you’re overflowing with qualifications,” said the elderly man with mild irony. “Watch, he’s showing them how ancient knights fought. Most children nowadays have no idea how to grasp a sword, lance, or pike. They don’t even know what a knight is. Observe: if I’m not mistaken, he’s now going to remind them of the six precepts of Geoffroy de Preuilly.”

  “Geoffroy de Preuilly?”

  “You’re not from around here, so there’s no reason why you should know about him. He was a knight who died in the mid-eleventh century and he’s credited with being the inventor of jousting, no less. Some claim he formulated the first rules governing tournaments. The historical record isn’t entirely clear on this, but they’re beautiful, noble precepts.”

  The clear, deep voice of the Man in the Wing Chair interrupted their conversation: “First precept: never stab your opponent with the point of your lance. Two, never stray outside your lane. Three, several men should never attack a single man. Four, do not wound your opponent’s horse. Five, only strike the chest and face . . . ”

  “Sixth and final precept,” said the older man, turning toward Miss Prim and raising a hand triumphantly to the brim of his hat, “never tilt at your opponent when he has the visor of his helmet raised. It’s no laughing matter: that was how Henry the Second of France died. As you may recall, Gabriel de Montgomery’s lance pierced his eye during a tournament.”

  She nodded benignly, stretched out a hand to pick a late blackberry, and then glanced at her watch.

  “Please excuse me, Horacio, but I must be going. I need to do some shopping in the village and get back by midday. I suppose they’ll stop jousting and head for the abbey.”

  “Won’t you be going with them?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not a very spiritual person.”

  “Don’t worry, neither am I. I go straight home after my morning walk, so if you’d allow me, I’d be delighted to accompany you.”

  The old man offered her his arm and she took it gratefully. For the first time since her arrival she felt relaxed and at ease. She had a feeling she’d met an ally. A reasonable, sensible, level-headed man: a person with whom one could talk. A gentleman, she thought happily as they walked together in the pleasant morning sun. And who wouldn’t want a gentleman as an ally?

  Three hours after this enjoyable encounter, Miss Prim returned from the village. She was a little late, but was confident that the elegant white labels and navy-blue leather notebooks would more than make up for her tardiness. Didn’t she think her employer a delightful man, the stationery shop owner had asked when she found out that she worked at the house? Miss Prim did not. He was different, she’d admit that. He’d been very generous in taking in his sister’s children and teaching classical languages to half the children of San Ireneo, she was happy to acknowledge that too. But he wasn’t delightful—at least, not when defending his ideas. He wasn’t delightful in arguments, or in debates: he wouldn’t yield an inch concerning what he believed to be true, and he had no mercy with opponents when he saw they weren’t on his level. Miss Prim had not been at the house long, but she’d already had occasion to see him in action. He could be the nicest man in the world, but he could also be the hardest.

  “How strange to hear you say this!” said the owner of the stationer’s. “I’ve never heard a woman say such a thing about him. Hard? You must be mistaken.”

  He definitely wasn’t hard with the children, Miss Prim reflected as she left the shop, though he did exert discipline—loving discipline, but discipline nevertheless—and, as the headmaster of that peculiar homeschool, he demanded a great deal from them. Miss Prim had spent several mornings working in the library while the children were having their lessons. Sheltered by the huge rows of books she was cataloguing, she’d observed the passion with which he explained the most complex matters to them, the clarity with which he expressed himself, the way he taught them to think. But she’d also seen him when he questioned them. She couldn’t say that they feared him, though they obviously wanted his attention and desperately sought his approval. It was touching to watch how they played and joked with him, laughing and shouting, but less so to witness them sidle up to him contritely when they got a Greek conjugation wrong and their mentor frowned and bowed his head in disappointment.

  “Don’t you think he’s too strict?” she had asked her new friend that morning. He had invited her to have breakfast with him in his garden as an agreeable conclusion to their walk to the village.

  “Too strict? I’m a fan of the scholastic method, Miss Prim. Don’t expect me to be critical of educational rigor. To be honest, I don’t have a very high opinion of the education system of the past fifty years.”

  “But it’s more than rigor, Horacio. His methods are archaic and outlandish, just like him. I assume you know that when he’s not giving the children their lessons, or playing at medieval tournaments with them, he spends hours shut up by himself. Sometimes he cloisters himself away almost all day, and it’s not unusual for him to miss lunch and dinner. Do you really believe that’s part of some educational strategy?”

  Her host laughed with relish. He got up and went into the house, returning with two books. He sat down at the table again and poured himself a second cup of coffee before opening one of the volumes.

  “My dear Miss Prim, I’m going to explain something to you. I presume you’ve read Pantagruel by Rabelais?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well then, I want you to understand that our Man in the Wing Chair, as you call him, is very like Gargantua in his method of educating the children.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Let me explain. There’s a passage in Pantagruel where Gargantua tells his son all the things he wants him to learn. I’m sure you know it. Let me see . . . yes, here it is. Would you care to read it and see if it reminds you of anything?”

  Miss Prim took the book from him and began reading aloud.

  “I intend, and will have it so, that thou learn the languages perfectly; first of all the Greek, as Quintilian will have it; secondly, the Latin; and then the Hebrew, for the Holy Scripture sake; and then the Chaldee and Arabic likewise.”

  “Don’t tell me he’s teaching the children Hebrew, Arabic, and Chaldaic?” she asked, aghast.

  “Oh no, though he’s a great linguist himself, especially in the dead languages. No, he’s not teaching them Arabic, but he is teaching them Greek, Latin, and some Aramaic, the latter more for sentimental than academic reasons. But please, continue reading.”

  Miss Prim took up the book again obediently.

  “And that thou frame thy style in Greek in imitation of Plato, and for the Latin after Cicero. Let there be no history which thou shalt not have ready in thy memory; unto the prosecuting of which design, books of cosmography will be very conducible and help thee much. Of the liberal arts of geometry, arithmetic, and music, I gave thee some taste when thou wert yet little, and not above five or six years old. Proceed further in them, and learn the remainder if thou canst. As for astronomy, study all the rules thereof. ”

  “I don’t wish to tire you; please let me summarize the rest. In civil law, Gargantua wants his son to ‘know the texts by heart, and then to confer them with philosophy.’ And as for nature, he teaches him that the world is one big school. He wants there to be ‘no sea, river, nor fountain, of which thou dost not know the fishes; all the fowls of the air; all the several kinds of shrubs and trees, whether in forests or orchards; all the sorts of herbs and flowers that grow upon the ground; all the various metals that are hid within the bowels of the earth; together with all the diversity of precious stones that are to be seen in the orient and south parts of the world.’ ”<
br />
  “Impressive,” she murmured.

  “Yes, it is. He requires that he learn about medicine and man. He wants to see in his son an ‘abyss of knowledge.’ ”

  “Is this what he wants from the children? It’s ridiculous, they’re too young.”

  “I won’t lie to you; I think it’s wonderful. For me, it’s an exciting academic adventure. But allow me to show you another of the texts that have inspired his teaching of philosophy and you’ll understand a little better what it’s all about. You may not be familiar with this one. It’s the letter from Jerome of Stridon to Laeta. St. Jerome, as you know, is the author of the magnificent translation—”

  “The Vulgate.”

  “That’s right. He spent many years as a hermit in the desert studying the Scriptures before returning to Rome and finally settling in Bethlehem. He’s unquestionably an intellectual giant, a man with a prodigious mind and a temperament and will of iron. He was extremely strict with himself, extremely demanding. Well, at one point during his time in Bethlehem, he received a letter from a woman called Laeta, asking for advice about her young daughter’s education.”

  “And did he recommend that she punish her by making her kneel with her arms outstretched?” asked Miss Prim with a smile.

  “No, absolutely not,” replied her host vehemently. “In my opinion, he gave her some admirable advice. In his letter he explains to Laeta that he believes it essential for children to learn foreign languages, especially Greek and Latin, from an early age because, as he writes: ‘For, if the tender lips are not from the first shaped to this, the tongue is spoilt by a foreign accent.’ This is no more and no less than one of your young employer’s guiding principles, my dear. St. Jerome recommends, of course, daily reading of the Scriptures.”

  “So, in fact, it all has a purpose?”

  “One day we’ll discuss purposes. Meanwhile, enjoy what you see . . . and join in. I’m sure you can answer little Eksi’s questions on the character flaws of the heroines of English literature much better than he can.”