Awakening of Miss Prim

by Natalia Sanmartin Fenollera

  “Of course not. It was his hunting instinct, the kind that makes a cat toy with a mouse, even if it isn’t hungry. No, I don’t think he wanted to marry me. He just wanted to win the chase, that’s all.”

  Thoughtfully, the Man in the Wing Chair’s mother unrolled a bright crimson velvet ribbon.

  “Was he attractive?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Intelligent?”

  “Not especially.” Miss Prim thought fleetingly of the Man in the Wing Chair.

  “Honest?”

  “Just enough.”

  “Amusing?”

  “In his own way.”

  “And in yours?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Did he have money?”

  “Lots.”

  “Then you can cross him off,” said the old lady firmly. “A man who’s not completely honest can keep within the bounds of decency if he’s lucky enough to be unattractive and of slender means. But add money and good looks, and the road to ruin is clearly signposted.”

  The librarian nodded and scored through the first name on the list.

  “Come, my dear, let’s not waste time. Who’s next?”

  The next one, Miss Prim explained nostalgically, had been her great love for several years, the first man she had fallen in love with and the first to have loved her. At the time, he was just a quiet young teacher, devoted to Husserl, amateur fencing, and the instruction of German.

  “I don’t recommend this one. I know the type. Do you really think you could feel fond of him again?” asked the Man in the Wing Chair’s mother scornfully.

  Miss Prim was sure she couldn’t, though she had to admit she’d wondered about him more than once.

  “Why did it end?” asked the old lady.

  “I suppose because what we felt for each other wasn’t love,” replied the librarian, weighing a Christmas star in her hand.

  “And how do you know that?”

  “Because I thought more of my own well-being than of his. And I think he, in his way, did the same.”

  “Such altruism! You’re starting to sound like my son,” said the old lady sardonically.

  Miss Prim blushed but did not reply.

  “So do we dispose of the disciple of Husserl as well?”

  “We do.”

  The old lady’s maid entered the library with the tea tray and went around the room turning on the lamps, closing the heavy curtains, and stoking the fire. Her silent, methodical movements passed almost unnoticed by the other two women, who were absorbed in unpacking fragile Nativity figures and conjuring further ghosts of men from the past.

  “I think I should cross out these three,” said Miss Prim pensively once the door had closed behind the maid.

  “I think so too, Prudencia. The fact that you refer to them as ‘these three,’ lumping them together, should give you a clue. Trust me, no woman should marry a man she sees as part of a group; it doesn’t bode well.”

  Miss Prim laughed wholeheartedly, admitting that none of the three men was at all likely to be a potential husband, and crossed off their names. When she reached the sixth name on the list she saw that it was one of those added by Hortensia and Emma.

  “The vet?” Miss Prim burst out laughing once again. “The vet? What possessed them to include him?”

  “As far as I know it was Herminia’s suggestion. She claimed to notice some interest on your part the day you met him.”

  The librarian recalled her flirting at the tearoom and again blushed. Couldn’t you do anything here without all the neighbors knowing? Admittedly she had found the young vet attractive, but from that to its being the talk of the village was quite a leap. True, she had smiled at him, paid him attention, and tried, unsuccessfully, to charm him, but wasn’t that every woman’s prerogative without it becoming the subject of public discussion? And anyway, what none of the ladies of San Ireneo knew was that part of the vet’s allure that afternoon had sprung from her rage at the Man in the Wing Chair. Would she have noticed the vet if she hadn’t been absolutely furious over her employer’s discourteous behavior? Would she have smiled as much? Miss Prim knew the answer perfectly well.

  “Don’t you want to give him a chance?” asked the old lady curiously. “I know Hortensia well enough to sense she’d be happy to arrange a date and even make the poor man think that it was his own idea.”

  “I’m pretty sure the poor man, as you call him, won’t want to have anything to do with a woman who believes that a love of animals isn’t real love. I think I said the wrong thing the day Hortensia introduced us. I’m afraid I offended him.”

  The Man in the Wing Chair’s mother peered at her in surprise over her glasses.

  “Offended him? For the love of God, what is the matter with men nowadays? In my husband’s day, my father’s, my brothers’, the idea that a man might be offended by a bit of idle chat with a woman would have been thought ridiculous. A man who feels wounded by a conversation in a tearoom is simply a wimp. I can’t imagine what you saw in him.”

  Miss Prim said nothing as she went on carefully unwrapping the figures that decorated the living room every December.

  “These are wonderful,” she said with admiration.

  “They’re over four centuries old. They were made by Irish monks. My husband, who had no sisters, inherited them from his mother, who inherited them from her mother, and so on for several generations. I was going to leave them to my daughter, but that wasn’t to be. They’ll go to Teseris, of course,” she said with sadness in her voice.

  Miss Prim kept a respectful silence.

  “So what about the wounded vet?” asked the old lady, making an effort to emerge from her introspection. “Would you go out with him?”

  “Maybe. It would depend how he asked,” she replied, smiling. “Let’s see, there are two more names here and . . . a question mark. What does that mean?”

  The Man in the Wing Chair’s mother cleared her throat and suddenly appeared intensely interested in the Christmas decorations.

  “It must be a mistake. There’s no name, just a question mark,” murmured Miss Prim.

  “I don’t think it’s a mistake. I’d say our dear Hortensia and Emma know exactly what they are doing,” said the old lady with a wry grin.

  “What do you mean? Who does the question mark stand for? Is it an actual man?”

  “You do have an outlandish turn of phrase sometimes, Prudencia. Is there such a thing as a man in the abstract? At least, one whom you can go out with?”

  Miss Prim did not reply.

  “Of course the question mark stands for a specific man. Our two ladies obviously know of a prospective husband whom you haven’t yet identified.”

  “Do you mean I haven’t met him yet?”

  “Why would they bother to conceal his identity with a question mark if you hadn’t met him? Of course you know him, my dear, that’s the point—to hide from you a man you haven’t yet considered as a candidate, or maybe are refusing to consider. Can you think of any man who fits that description?” asked the old lady, looking inquiringly into her eyes.

  Miss Prim lowered her gaze and began nervously rummaging through the box of Nativity figures, eventually pulling out a little shepherd carrying a sheep.

  “Would you mind handling those figures a little less energetically,” said the old lady coldly. “A husband may last a lifetime, but those figures have survived several lifetimes. And I’d be grateful if they could continue to do so.”

  5

  The San Ireneo Gazette occupied one of the few office blocks in the village, if that’s what you could call the old three-story stone and timber building. It was so narrow that the staircase took up almost half of each floor. Like all the commercial establishments in San Ireneo, it had a neat metal sign and a small garden, but everyone agreed that its most valuable asset was, without a doubt, its editor. Miss Prim arrived at the appointed time in the early afternoon carrying a tray of freshly baked cakes. After almost three mo
nths in the village, she knew that tea, coffee, or hot chocolate, fine pastries, and a good liqueur were essential to any social gathering there.

  “It surprised me too at first, but I’ve come to see it as a mark of civilization,” said Herminia Treaumont after thanking the librarian for her edible gift and inviting her to look around the tiny newspaper premises.

  “Really? It seems like a relic to me,” said Miss Prim. “Who has time nowadays for these leisurely teas?”

  The editor of the Gazette showed her the antique rotary press on which the newspaper’s four hundred copies were printed daily.

  “What a beautiful thing! So it still works?”

  “Of course it does. It’s a relic, as you would say, but the concept of memory is inherent to civilization. Primitive peoples perpetuate barely more than a handful of traditions. They can’t capture their history in writing. They have no sense of permanence.”

  “That can apply to tea, macaroons, and pastries.”

  “And to conversation too, of course. We modern primitives also have our limitations. We no longer find the time to sit around a table and chat about the human and the divine. And not only do we not find the time, we don’t even know how to anymore.”

  Miss Prim examined a copy of that evening’s paper.

  “What you mean, Herminia, is that traditions are a bulwark against the decline of culture, is that it?” she asked. “I quite agree, but I would never have thought of extending that to the mountains of cake consumed at social gatherings in San Ireneo.”

  They laughed as they entered Herminia’s office, which was screened off from the minuscule editorial department behind a glass partition. Two paces from a desk piled with books and papers, there was a tea table spread with an immaculate cloth upon which were set out a tray of cupcakes and macaroons, a pot of hot chocolate, a jug of cream and a bowl of fruit.

  “You’re an extremely civilized woman,” said Miss Prim with a smile. “Tell me, what do you report on around here? Is there any news in San Ireneo? Or do you make it up?”

  “Of course there’s news in San Ireneo,” replied her hostess. “Wherever there’s a group of human beings there’s news. What constitutes news and the criteria you use to establish that is another matter. This is a newspaper in the old tradition, Prudencia. We don’t only report small events in the community—above all, we are a forum for debate.”

  “Really? Who takes part? And what do you debate?”

  “We all take part. We debate anything and everything: politics, economics, art, education, literature, religion . . . Are you surprised? Look around you, at your own life, your relationships. Isn’t life a continual debate?”

  For a moment Miss Prim thought of herself in the library telling the Man in the Wing Chair about the clamor in her head. Then she recalled discussing marriage with Hortensia Oeillet, feminism with the ladies of the Feminist League, education with her employer’s mother, fairy tales with the children of the house. Yes, in a way, life was indeed a continual debate.

  “From time to time—about once or twice a month, in fact—we organize public debates at our Socratic Club and then we publish them.”

  Prudencia took a macaroon and nibbled at it.

  “What’s a Socratic Club? Do you mean a debating society?”

  “You can’t imagine how popular it is. People come from all around. Sometimes it’s not a live debate but happens in installments. One day someone publishes an article, a second person responds, then a third writes something, a fourth, even a fifth, and we all watch the cut and thrust.”

  Miss Prim asked if her employer joined in.

  “Of course he does. And he often wins.”

  The librarian replied that this didn’t surprise her in the slightest.

  “Well, I doubt he’s ever used all his ammunition against you. Watching him in discussion with Horacio Delàs is quite a spectacle.”

  “Horacio is a charming man,” said Miss Prim.

  “I’m delighted you’ve noticed.”

  The librarian regarded her hostess with interest. The editor of the San Ireneo Gazette had the indefinable charm of someone who said little but thought much. Miss Prim had always felt that such people were at a marked advantage. They never said anything tactless, never spouted nonsense, never had cause to regret their words or justify themselves. She had always tried to behave like this, tried not to say anything that might hurt other people or herself, but it wasn’t easy. Herminia Treaumont was a master of the art. Reluctantly, she could now see what the Man in the Wing Chair had meant when he’d said Herminia was attractive.

  “I’m concerned about the two girls,” Miss Prim said suddenly, remembering something she’d wanted to raise for some time.

  The editor looked at her, taken aback.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean their education. Not their religious beliefs—that’s far too extraordinary a matter for me to engage with. I’m talking about delicacy.”

  “You think they’re being brought up without delicacy? Their uncle is a gentleman, a wonderfully sensitive and courteous man. I can testify to that.”

  Miss Prim felt a slight discomfort in her stomach that made her wonder if the cakes were as fresh as they might be.

  “I don’t doubt that he possesses those qualities, but you’ve said it: he’s a man. He’s immersing those girls in Ancient Greek and Latin, medieval literature and Renaissance poetry, Baroque painting and sculpture.”

  “It’s funny you should say that, because he detests the Baroque. I myself find it wonderful,” said Herminia Treaumont, taking a piece of fruit from the bowl.

  Miss Prim searched for the right words. Had she been one of those people who said little but thought much, she’d have found them, but she wasn’t. And as she wasn’t, the best option was probably to be direct.

  “There’s no sign of Little Women in the house.”

  “Little Women?”

  “Little Women.”

  “But that’s impossible. I can’t believe it.”

  Prudencia smiled with relief. For a moment she’d feared that Herminia Treaumont was one of those uncouth souls who didn’t appreciate that a well-used copy of Little Women was essential to an education.

  “You must be mistaken, Prudencia. There must be a separate library for the girls. I can’t believe you haven’t realized that. As far as I know, Eksi’s already read Jane Austen.”

  “That’s true, but Jane Austen is Jane Austen. Even he couldn’t ignore her, she’s too important. Though I have to say, the only time I’ve heard him mention her it was to criticize Mr. Darcy.”

  Herminia offered another cup of hot chocolate to Miss Prim and poured one for herself.

  “All the men I know are critical of Mr. Darcy. They find him annoying and arrogant.”

  “Why?” asked Miss Prim, intrigued.

  “I suppose it’s because they realize they seem rather lackluster by comparison.”

  Miss Prim said nothing, remembering the conversation in the kitchen.

  “We’ll have to have a word with him about it,” said her hostess.

  “In my humble opinion, Little Women is hugely important,” she insisted. “I’ve always believed that a girl’s childhood is like a wasteland without that book.”

  “I agree.”

  They both fell silent. One of the newspaper’s contributors knocked at the door. Herminia dispensed some brief, precise instructions before closing the door and sitting down again with her guest.

  “Let me tell you something, Prudencia. Those girls are receiving an exceptional education, academically quite unique. In fairness, I ought to make that clear.”

  Miss Prim drew her chair closer to the table and spoke firmly.

  “No education is complete without visiting that little corner of Concord. I’m sure its literary merit doesn’t stand up next to many other books but, as we both know, this is not what it’s about. It’s about beauty, delicacy, security. When they grow up and life treats them badly—as
it certainly will—they’ll always be able to look back and take refuge for a few hours in that familiar sentimental story.

  “They’ll get back from work, stressed by the traffic, aching with tension and problems and there, in their minds, they’ll be able to open a door into the parlor of Orchard House with its rather cloying, puritanical transcendentalism, its piano, cheerful fire, and blessed Christmas tree.”

  “I always wanted to be like Jo,” murmured Herminia nostalgically.

  “Best I don’t tell you who I wanted to be.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it shows the kind of childhood I had.”

  “Come on, Prudencia, tell me. Meg?”

  “No.”

  “Amy?”

  “No.”

  “Not poor Beth?”

  “No.”

  “Surely not Aunt March?”

  “No, not Aunt March. Mrs. March.”

  “Mrs. March? Really? Why?”

  Miss Prim pondered a moment. It had something to do with the personality of her own mother, a sensitive, artistic woman but quite unlike the mother of the March girls. She bore not the slightest resemblance to the strong and steady, sweet and understanding woman in the novel. The librarian had often thought that if she had to choose an adjective to describe her mother it would be consolable.

  “Consolable?”

  “My mother’s always been a highly dramatic person. She’s the kind of woman who demands emotional support even when misfortune befalls others, not her. When my father lost his job a few years ago, it was she who shut herself up for days crying and wailing. He sat alone, quietly, in the living room, head bowed. When I lost my university scholarship she wouldn’t come to the dinner table for two weeks. It was the same when my older sister’s husband left her. Virginia couldn’t cry because beside her she had a woman in sackcloth and ashes, bemoaning her misfortune.”

  Herminia placed her hands over Miss Prim’s.

  “I’m so sorry, Prudencia. But why Mrs. March? Wouldn’t it have been more logical to identify with one of the daughters?”