Awakening of Miss Prim

by Natalia Sanmartin Fenollera

  “How did you know?”

  Instead of replying, the Man in the Wing Chair grabbed an apple and, with a wink at his niece, headed toward the door.

  “You should be pleased I’ve discovered your secret ingredient,” he said before leaving. “Now we can truly say we’re quits.”

  Once the door had closed behind him, the librarian sighed deeply. She glanced out of the window before rubbing her hands in flour and getting back to shaping her pastry.

  “Miss Prim,” said Eksi from across the table, “don’t you think our uncle always says exactly the right thing?”

  “Possibly, dear, possibly,” murmured Miss Prim, still very worked up. Then she went to the oven, opened it carefully and, with some impetus and one might even say a touch of euphoria, placed her wonderful tart inside.

  5

  The headquarters of the San Ireneo Feminist League was approached along a narrow path lined with tuffets of chrysanthemums. At five o’clock precisely on Tuesday afternoon—the date and time stated on the invitation—the graceful figure of Miss Prim could be seen ringing at the doorbell, ready to encounter at last the hub of female power in the village. To her surprise she was greeted by a tiny, rosy-cheeked maid in a white cap and starched apron. Miss Prim had not expected such formality at a meeting of feminists. True, she had no experience in these matters, but the idea of a maid at this sort of gathering seemed incongruous. However, her feeling for old-fashioned beauty allowed her to appreciate the smile of welcome, the courtesy with which she was ushered upstairs, and the way she found herself—as if by magic—in the middle of the living room.

  “My dear, we’re delighted you’re here!”

  Hortensia Oeillet came up to her in the company of a group of women—the librarian counted ten of them—who crowded around her and, with astounding speed, settled her on a chair and furnished her with a cup of hot chocolate and two cream cakes. Miss Prim thanked them for the honor, but politely turned down their invitation to say a few words before the chairwoman opened the meeting. As she was introduced to them in turn, she learned that many of the guests were professional women, which seemed perfectly natural at a gathering that advocated female liberation. But she soon noticed something rather odd. The librarian was used to the convention by which, when talking about their occupation, people made reference to their qualifications, whether in medicine, law, finance, or university teaching. At the meeting of the Feminist League, however, conversations took a different course. Each time Miss Prim asked one of the other guests what she did, the reply was not what she was expecting.

  “So you’re a pharmacist,” she said to one woman. “Where do you work? I think I’ve seen a pharmacy in the square.”

  “Oh yes, I am, but I don’t have a pharmacy. I run a small art school. In San Ireneo one pharmacy is plenty, but when I arrived here there was no one who could teach art, do you see?”

  Miss Prim, who certainly did not see, then spoke to an elegant woman who, she had been informed, once ran one of the most expensive and fashionable slimming clinics in the country.

  “Tell me,” she said with friendly interest, “how does a professional woman with all your experience come to settle in such a small place?”

  “Actually it’s very simple,” the woman replied with a smile, “though I don’t think you’ve been told the whole story. That chapter of my career ended some time ago. You’ve probably seen my bakery, in the square next to Hortensia’s flower shop? Yes, I see you’re surprised. I closed the clinic five years ago, just before moving here. I’d achieved almost everything I set out to do, I no longer had much to occupy me, and at that time I craved a simpler life. And what could be simpler than baking? I must say I’m tremendously lucky that here in San Ireneo I’m mistress of my own time. I’ve been able to specialize so that I only bake for afternoon tea. All I make are buns, choux pastries, cakes, dainty bites.”

  “It must take great courage to make such an extreme change to your life,” murmured Miss Prim without great conviction before resuming her seat by the fireplace.

  She had just sat down when a tall, heavy blond woman came up to her and shook her hand energetically.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Clarissa Waste, proprietor of the San Ireneo Gazette. You may already have met my business partner, Herminia.”

  Miss Prim replied that she hadn’t yet had that pleasure, adding that she’d never spoken to a journalist before.

  “Well, I think you’ll have to wait a little longer. I’m not a journalist. Let’s say I’m more of a small-business woman. Emma Giovanacci, that curvy woman you see with Hortensia, is a journalist, or at least she was before she came here. Now she’s concentrating on setting up our Institute for Research into Medieval Iconography, as well as teaching around twenty village children at her home. Don’t ask me how she manages; it’s a mystery.”

  Miss Prim agreed that, indeed, the capacity for multitasking of some members of their sex was a mystery, which, in her opinion, had yet to be fully studied by scientists. She then asked the woman what she had done before working in the newspaper business.

  “I was a busy housewife. I still am; it’s not something I want to give up, but I combine it with running the newspaper. Before coming to live here, that would have been unthinkable. Oh, but I see you don’t know! It’s an evening paper. We put it together in the mornings, while the children are attending Miss Mott’s school or your employer’s wonderful classes on Homer and Aeschylus. You see, here our philosophy is that everything important happens in the morning.”

  “And what if something important happens in the afternoon?” she asked, surprised.

  “Well, we’d have to report it in the following evening’s edition. What else could we do?”

  Intrigued, Miss Prim continued to move around the room. In this way she found out that many families in San Ireneo invested all their time and expertise—in some cases, very finely specialized—in personally seeing to their children’s education and giving classes to the children of others as well, an activity that provided great social prestige. Many of the women there owned their own businesses, small establishments that were almost all located on the ground floor of their houses so as not to disrupt family life too much. Working hours didn’t seem to be a problem. Everyone was of the opinion that women, if anything more than men, should be able to organize their time freely. This meant that no one was surprised that the bookshop opened from ten till two, the solicitor’s office was open from eleven till three, and the dentist’s surgery began its day at twelve and ended it on the dot of five in the afternoon.

  Miss Prim had just poured herself a third cup of hot chocolate when Hortensia Oeillet’s voice rose above the hubbub.

  “Ladies, ladies, please take your seats! We must begin, it’s almost five thirty.”

  All the guests—the librarian counted nearly thirty of them—sat down to listen to the chairwoman, who began by reading out the agenda from a sheet of paper.

  “The first matter we need to deal with is the untenable situation of our dear Amelia and Judge Bassett.”

  A murmur of approval went around the room. The woman beside Miss Prim whispered that young Amelia was in a position of semi-slavery at the house of a retired magistrate whom she’d been helping to complete his memoirs for the past six years.

  “Imagine, the girl’s working over eight hours a day. It’s anachronistic and intolerable.”

  Hearing this, it dawned on the librarian for the first time that her own working day, at the house of the Man in the Wing Chair, never lasted longer than five or six hours. In the beginning she had attributed the relaxed timetable to her employer’s eccentricity, but she was now starting to see that it was a core value in San Ireneo.

  “Our friend Amelia,” Hortensia was saying, “is obliged to work hours that are unacceptable according to the principles we in San Ireneo hold dear. The judge has been warned on several occasions, but he turns a deaf ear. As you know, the girl is getting married in April nex
t year”—another murmur, this time of congratulation, ran around the room—“and will no doubt soon become a mother. It is therefore urgent that we do all we can to resolve the situation.”

  Applause accompanied by a few cheers greeted the chairwoman’s words. Next, a slight woman with large eyes and an extraordinarily expressive face stood up to speak.

  “That’s Herminia Treaumont,” whispered Miss Prim’s neighbor, “the editor of the San Ireneo Gazette. Before settling here she held the Chair in Elizabethan Poetry at the University of Pennsylvania.”

  Herminia spoke in a clear, calm, and well-modulated voice.

  “Dear friends, I think our chairwoman has clearly explained Amelia’s situation. As some of you know, I’ve often been her confidante and I’m fully aware of the problems she faces at the judge’s house, though I also know that she’s very fond of him. Not only is it impossible for her to have a social life while working such hours, but she has also been unable to devote any time to reading and study which, as you know, is one of the main principles upon which our small community is based.”

  The speaker paused for a sip of water before continuing.

  “When Amelia arrived here, as I’m sure many of you remember, she was a young lady with a high opinion of both herself and her love of literature. That all changed when, within a few months of coming to live in the village, she discovered that what the world called literature, San Ireneo considered a waste of time. I still recall the morning when she entered my office, eyes shining with emotion and an old anthology of John Donne’s poetry in her hand. This was where she discovered that intelligence, this wonderful gift, grows in silence, not in noise. It was here too that she learned that a human mind, a truly human mind, is nurtured over time, with hard work and discipline.”

  More applause, noisy and animated, reverberated around the room.

  “Isn’t she wonderful?” whispered the woman next to Miss Prim. “I never miss her column on a Tuesday. Be sure to read it, you’ll love it.”

  “The motion that the chair proposes to the Feminist League,” continued Herminia Treaumont, “is as follows. As you know, Amelia has exquisite taste. Give her a remnant of fabric, a teapot, half a dozen roses, and a chipped mirror and she can create a work of art. So we thought we could organize a collection to help her start a small interior-design business. We don’t have anything like that here in San Ireneo, and I think we could all benefit from it. It would liberate her from the restrictions endured by all employees. I’m afraid her husband-to-be is not showing much of a talent for gardening. They won’t be able to live off his salary alone, not for the time being.”

  “But who’ll help the judge with his memoirs?” objected one of the women anxiously.

  “His memoirs? His memoirs? To hell with his memoirs!” replied the speaker with unexpected vehemence, seconded immediately by a chorus of applause.

  Once the votes had been cast, unanimously supporting the motion that a collection be started, the meeting continued uneventfully. The next item on the agenda, proposed by Hortensia Oeillet, related to the feasibility of setting up a theater company to complement the village children’s literary education. All those present were in agreement. You couldn’t study Shakespeare, Racine, or Molière unless you left behind the pages of the book, explained the chairwoman firmly. Nor could you understand Aeschylus or Sophocles from the confines of a school desk. (At this, Miss Prim, absolutely delighted, could not refrain from murmuring with feeling: Who knows what is considered righteous below? ) It was unimaginable that someone could come to love Corneille or Schiller, continued Hortensia energetically, without having had the opportunity to witness the violent beauty and heroism of their characters onstage.

  “Bravo! Bravo!” cried the librarian, on her feet amid the thunder of applause, foot stamping and spoon rattling. A few minutes later, as Miss Prim was drinking her fourth cup of chocolate, a plump, jolly woman, whom her neighbor identified as Emma Giovanacci, stood up to present the final item on the agenda.

  “The third and final matter to be addressed concerns the advisability of finding a husband for the new resident in San Ireneo, young Miss Prim.”

  She gave a violent start. Pale and trembling, she stood up, placed her cup on the table, and sought the chairwoman’s eye.

  “I’m sorry, Hortensia,” she said icily. “I don’t understand.”

  A weighty silence filled the room.

  “My dear Emma, what were you thinking?” stammered the chairwoman, looking at the woman who had read out the last item on the agenda. “Are you unaware that Miss Prim is here, here, with us today?”

  Horrified, Emma Giovanacci stared at the paper in her hands.

  “But it’s on the agenda!” she wailed after being informed that the woman referred to was the attractive young lady who had been sitting by the fireplace all evening and was now frantically searching for her handbag.

  When she had found what she was looking for, the librarian hurried to the door, intent on leaving without waiting to be seen out by the rosy-faced maid in the white cap who, like many of the other women of the village, had taken a seat and joined the meeting. Emma’s apologies and Hortensia’s distressed pleas were to no avail. Nor were the soothing words of Clarissa Waste, who explained to Miss Prim that finding husbands for people was quite customary for the feminist ladies of San Ireneo.

  “You call yourselves feminists?” Prudencia exclaimed indignantly, turning on them. “Surely you don’t believe that a woman should still depend on a man?”

  “But, my dear, look at yourself for a moment.” Herminia Treaumont’s clear, mild voice froze Miss Prim to the spot. “You live in a man’s house, you work all day obeying a man’s orders, and you receive a salary from that same man, who pays all his bills punctually on the first of every month. Did you really imagine that you’d freed yourself from dependence on a male?”

  “It’s not the same, and you know it,” replied the librarian in a hoarse undertone.

  “Of course it’s not the same. Most of the married women in this village don’t even remotely depend on their husbands the way you depend on your boss. As owners of their own businesses, some are the main breadwinners in their households, and many others save a great deal of money by educating their children themselves and turning into disposable income sums that the rest of the world squanders on mediocre schools. None of them has to ask permission to carry out personal business, as I hazard you have to at work. None of us has to keep our opinions to ourselves, as I’m sure you frequently have to in conversations with your employer.”

  Miss Prim opened her mouth to object, but something in the other woman’s expression caused her to close it again.

  “It wouldn’t occur to any of them,” continued Herminia, “to present a medical certificate when they’re ill, or expect to endure condescension when they announce something as natural as a pregnancy. Do you see that quotation in the little frame above the fireplace?”

  Prudencia reluctantly turned her gaze toward the wall.

  “It was written many years ago by the man to whom I owe most thanks in my life, after my academic mentor and my father. And unfortunately I think it’s the most profound truth ever spoken on the matter. Read it. Read it closely, and tell me it’s not true.”

  In silence, Miss Prim read.

  Ten thousand women marched through the streets of London saying: “We will not be dictated to,” and then went off to become stenographers.I

  “Believe me, ladies, if I really wanted a husband I would look for a husband myself,” she said before she left the room, her nose pointing higher in the air than ever, and slammed the door behind her.

  “Come now, Prudencia, don’t upset yourself, it really isn’t worth it.”

  Horacio Delàs poured Miss Prim a steaming cup of lime-blossom tea, which she gently refused.

  “You can’t imagine how unpleasant it was for me,” she murmured, “how embarrassed I felt.”

  Following her hasty departure from the F
eminist League, the librarian had gone to the house of the only other man she knew in the village apart from her employer.

  “This is a strange place, full of very odd people,” she said with a sigh.

  “I hope you don’t think of me in that way. Remember, I’m one of them,” replied her host, offering her a glass of brandy. This she accepted gratefully.

  Miss Prim assured him that she didn’t mean to include him. Since her arrival in San Ireneo she had tried to fit in, but her efforts had been in vain. There were too many unanswered questions, and the first of these was about her employer: Who was he? What did he do for a living? Why did he go to the abbey first thing every morning? Why did he spend whole days immersed in old books, forgetting mealtimes? Was he some kind of urban hermit? Miss Prim had heard of such people. Madmen devoted to a life of prayer, mystics who lived in the city in a state of constant worship just like the original hermits in the desert, or the mysterious Russian starets. Perhaps the Man in the Wing Chair was an urban hermit.

  “For the record, I don’t have anything against hermits, much less urban ones. I’ve always respected all forms of spirituality,” she pointed out.

  “Of course you have, my dear. But believe me, he is not a hermit.”

  “What is he, then? Because you can’t deny that his religious zeal goes beyond the norm.”

  “Well beyond. I can’t believe you’re so unobservant. Haven’t you realized that you’re working for a convert?”

  “A convert?”

  “I was sure you knew.”

  “Absolutely not. A convert from what?”

  “From skepticism, of course. What else? You have to agree that of all dragons, it’s the only one worth fleeing.”

  Perplexed, the librarian wondered if the brandy wasn’t going straight to her head.

  “You must at least have observed that he’s not an ordinary man,” insisted her host.

  Miss Prim agreed that it wouldn’t be easy to consider the Man in the Wing Chair an ordinary man.