Awakening of Miss Prim

by Natalia Sanmartin Fenollera

  “Why have you kept Louisa May Alcott out of Teseris’s and Eksi’s lives?” she demanded out of the blue.

  “What?” His tone was quite different. “Prudencia, what is the matter with you? Did you have enough breakfast?”

  “Quite enough, thank you. So tell me, why?”

  He stared at her for a moment in silence.

  “If I weren’t a gentleman, I’d take your temperature right now. What on earth are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about Little Women, of course.”

  “Little Women? What the hell has Little Women got to do with it?”

  The librarian cleared her throat, to buy herself some time.

  “It’s got nothing to do with it directly.”

  He stared at her in growing disbelief.

  “I’m waiting for you to explain.”

  “Let me see,” Miss Prim summoned all her powers of improvisation and looked gravely at the Man in the Wing Chair. “In a way, we are what we read.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I’m saying that in a way we are the product of our reading.”

  “Really? That’s very interesting, and it gives me some ideas about you.”

  She drew herself up, determined not to be browbeaten.

  “We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about Miss Mott.”

  “I was under the impression we were talking about Louisa May Alcott.”

  “You don’t see any connection between what’s happened to Eugenia and what she’s read, is that right?”

  “That’s right, I don’t.” The Man in the Wing Chair looked at the floor, a grin playing across his lips. “Prudencia, if you’re trying to distract me with a deliberately preposterous argument so that I stop regretting my part in Eugenia’s misfortune, believe me I’m grateful. But don’t try to make me accept this nonsense about our being what we read. It’s not worthy of you.”

  She began pacing around the classroom in an agitated fashion.

  “I don’t think it’s nonsense. I can’t speak for you, but for myself I can say that my personality has been molded to a large extent by the books I’ve read. That’s why,” she said, wringing her hands, “it concerns me to find gaps in the girls’ literary education. I’m not saying they’re deliberate gaps—maybe I was too hasty—but they are gaps nonetheless. And they’re no doubt due to the fact that, hard as you might try, you are not a woman.”

  “Hard as I might try?”

  Miss Prim made a face.

  “What I mean is—”

  “I know perfectly well what you mean. My dear Prudencia,” the Man in the Wing Chair laughed as he noticed the turkey for the first time, “if anyone’s concerned about the role of literature in the children’s lives, it’s me. I’ve carefully chosen not only which books, but when and how they become part of my nieces’ and nephews’ existence.”

  The librarian was about to speak, but he stopped her with a decisive glance.

  “Despite the chaos you see in my library and in my house in general—the mess that bothers you so greatly—there’s not so much as a single improvised comma in the children’s education. Every book that passes through their hands has passed through mine first. It’s no coincidence that they read Lewis Carroll before Dickens, and Dickens before Homer. There was nothing fortuitous in the fact that they learned to rhyme with Robert Louis Stevenson before getting to Tennyson, and that they were introduced to Tennyson before Virgil. They met Snow White, Peter Rabbit, and the Lost Boys before Oliver Twist, Gulliver, and Robinson Crusoe, and those before Ulysses, Don Quixote, Faust, and King Lear. They read things in that order because that’s what I wanted. They’re being brought up with good books so that later they can absorb great books. And, by the way, before you start expounding your annoying, cerebral educational theories, I know perfectly well that every child is different. That’s why they set the pace, not me. But the rungs on the ladder they’re climbing have been put there by me, using the experience accumulated over centuries by others before me. Others to whom I’m profoundly grateful.”

  Miss Prim, who’d listened carefully, cleared her throat gently before speaking.

  “And Little Women? Where does it fit into this plan? I’m sure it doesn’t count as a great book, but I hope there’s room for it in the good books category.”

  “No, I have to admit that there isn’t.”

  “Oh, but why not?” cried the librarian. “Can’t you see that erudition is one thing and delicacy quite another? You know a great deal about literature, but you know nothing about femininity.”

  “However hard I might try.”

  “Don’t take this as a joke, it’s important. And, for your information, Herminia agrees with me. No one’s claiming that Louisa May Alcott is Jane Austen, but then Robert Louis Stevenson isn’t Dante.”

  The Man in the Wing Chair looked at her with interest.

  “You know what surprises me about all this, Prudencia? I look at you—a highly qualified, determined, modern woman—and I can’t picture you reading Little Women.”

  Miss Prim put her turned-up nose in the air with even more emphasis than usual.

  “And why not, may I ask?”

  “Because it’s a prissy, syrupy book, and if there’s one thing I hate it’s cloying sentimentality. I’m delighted that you and Herminia recognize that Louisa May Alcott isn’t Jane Austen, because she most definitely is not.”

  “Have you read it?” she said. “Little Women, I mean.”

  “No, I haven’t read it,” he replied, unfazed.

  “Then for once in your life, stop pontificating and read it before giving an opinion.”

  He burst out laughing and looked at her with renewed interest.

  “Are you telling me to read Little Women? Me?”

  “Yes, you. The least you could do before condemning a book is read it, don’t you think?”

  “But what about Miss Mott? Have we already forgotten Miss Mott?”

  The librarian pulled on her coat and gloves, picked up the turkey, and, heading to the door, muttered: “Of course we haven’t forgotten Miss Mott. I bet you she hasn’t read Little Women, either.”

  The Christmas Eve dinner was a success, despite the unpleasant argument that preceded it involving reproaches, accusations, and the threat of tears from the cook. Miss Prim managed to assert her authority with skill and courage. After all, she explained to the dragon who so jealously guarded the kitchen, Christmas was a congenial, family occasion, a time for sharing and celebration. And what better way to share and celebrate than to cook together? Thrown off course by Miss Prim’s eloquence, the cook had given in at last, but not without pointing out that Christmas was far more than this. That was what she’d learned, what her mother had taught her, and her mother before her; and that was what the old Father at the abbey had explained, and the master himself said the same. No, this was only a small part of Christmas, the least important, if she didn’t mind her saying so.

  “Of course I don’t mind, Mrs. Rouan, because it’s the truth. And truth never changes, as you well know.” Drawn by the delicious smell of roasting turkey, the Man in the Wing Chair had come sauntering into the kitchen, but at the sight of Miss Prim’s dismayed expression he stopped in his tracks.

  “I don’t think this is a good evening for an argument,” he said, sensing the tension between the two women. Then, approaching the cook, he whispered in her ear: “Let her do her cooking, Mrs. Rouan, that turkey won’t be a patch on your delicious roast beef, no doubt about it.”

  Puffed up with pride, the cook didn’t say another word, and instead applied herself to her soufflé while keeping an eye on the three types of cake baking in the old oven. An hour and a half later, the meal was ready. The children were rushing around in excitement at the prospect of bedtime being so much later than usual, the ancient family dinner service was laid on a spotless linen tablecloth and the guests—Horacio Delàs and Judge Bassett, who had come for dinner on that day for years—were settled
comfortably in the sitting room. While Miss Prim was changing she could hear the commotion of everyone embracing, laughing, singing, and exchanging Christmas greetings.

  Half an hour later, seated at the immense dining-room table, as she let the lively conversation wash over her and smiled from time to time at the Man in the Wing Chair, Miss Prim felt nostalgic, though she could not say exactly why. Along with the others, she listened in silence to the youngest child read from the Gospel according to St. Luke. After dinner, she walked with them as, wrapped in coats and scarves and furnished with candles, they processed merrily through the freezing night air to Midnight Mass at the old abbey. But she left them there, at the doors to the ancient monastery, whose illuminated windows shone like a lighthouse out of the darkness.

  “Are you sure you won’t come in?” asked Horacio. “You know I’m not a believer, but I attend out of respect and appreciation. Believe me, at least on an evening like this, it’s worth it. The ancient Roman liturgy is incomparably beautiful.”

  “Thank you, Horacio, but I’m very tired,” Prudencia replied politely, as she watched all the residents of San Ireneo arrive in groups, large and small, including numerous children muffled up to their eyebrows against the bone-chilling cold.

  The stars were shining brightly in the sky as Miss Prim turned and headed back to the house. At a fork in the road, she stopped and looked at her watch. After a few moments’ hesitation, she took the path that led to the village. The cheerful shop lights had been extinguished but the windows of the houses were softly lit, as if waiting for their occupants to return from the service, and they lent the streets a warm, welcoming air. She reached the main square and, with resolute steps, made her way to the old tearoom, which was still open. A wave of warmth greeted her as she opened the door. Inside, the tables and counter were deserted. It took her a moment to notice the woman sitting at the window, bent over a cup of tea with a book in her hand.

  “I thought you were at the abbey with the others,” said Miss Prim.

  The mother of the Man in the Wing Chair looked up and gestured for the librarian to sit down.

  “I never stay for the service. I find it too emotional. I walk all the way there with them but when we arrive, I tell the children that Grandmama would rather sit at the back. I’ve done it ever since they’ve been old enough to know what’s what, but you know something?”

  “This year it didn’t work,” replied Miss Prim with a mischievous smile, removing her scarf and gloves and ordering a cup of hot chocolate.

  The old lady looked at her, impressed.

  “That’s very perceptive.”

  Miss Prim laughed and said that her perceptiveness was merely the fruit of a little experience.

  “You can fool children for a time, but we adults mostly don’t realize when the period of grace has expired.”

  Her companion nodded thoughtfully.

  “This evening I went with them as usual. I waited for them to settle in the family pew, but when I told them that Grandmama was going to sit at the back as she always did, they said something they’ve never said before.”

  “Let me guess.”

  “I don’t think you’ll be able to. ‘Wrap up well when you leave, Grandmama,’ they said. I’ve never been so astonished in my life. I didn’t know how to respond, and just mumbled something quite incoherent. And then what could I do? I rushed out.”

  Miss Prim smiled kindly. She knew it was the old lady’s last evening at the house, just as she had known—or at least guessed—that she might find her at the tearoom. Following Eugenia Mott’s marital disaster, the librarian and the mother of the Man in the Wing Chair had barely spoken. Miss Prim’s days had been busy with presents, Christmas cards, small errands, and accumulating a backlog of work. She took a bite of lemon cake, observing her companion in silence. She’d come to appreciate the old lady, to appreciate and respect her. But since the day of their conversation beneath Eugenia Mott’s camellia, the fragile trust they had established seemed to have evaporated. Miss Prim wondered whether the exchange of confidences had been a dream. Would she see the old lady again after this evening? She shivered. They would probably—or rather, definitely—never meet again.

  “Do you remember telling me that it was the children who were responsible for your son’s following the path you so disapprove of?”

  “Of course I remember.”

  Miss Prim paused to spread butter and jam onto a thick slice of toasted farmhouse bread.

  “How did it happen?” she asked.

  The mother of the Man in the Wing Chair did not reply, busy buttering her own piece of toast.

  “What I mean is,” continued the librarian, “how was it possible? How could such young children bring about such an enormous and profound change?”

  The old lady stopped eating and looked up.

  “It was Teseris.”

  “Teseris?”

  “It was those amazing intuitions of hers. Has she told you about the Redemption being a real fairy tale? An exceptional insight for a little girl of ten, though she’s not the first to come up with it. Others—Tolkien, for instance—did so before her. Have you ever spoken at length with my granddaughter?”

  “Yes, of course,” replied Miss Prim.

  “She’s a strange child, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, she is. She’s not like any child I’ve ever met. Sometimes it seems as if she’s keeping some secret.”

  Prudencia bit her lip. Despite her natural aversion to discussions of a metaphysical nature, she had to admit that the child gave the impression of inhabiting depths that were beyond anyone else’s reach.

  “My granddaughter has always been different.”

  The old lady concentrated on stirring a lump of sugar into her tea.

  “She’s startlingly at ease with the supernatural. She has been since she was tiny. And what’s most interesting is that for a long time she couldn’t understand that the rest of us didn’t feel the same.”

  “Do you mean . . . ” Miss Prim swallowed. “Do you mean that Teseris is some sort of child mystic? Surely not.”

  With careful deliberation, the Man in the Wing Chair’s mother cut a second sliver of cake and placed it on Prudencia’s plate, before helping herself.

  “No, Prudencia, I’m not saying she’s a mystic. I don’t know what mystics are like but I’m sure they’re nothing like her. But the fact is, I never suspected to what extent the supernatural touches the natural until I saw it reflected in her.”

  Miss Prim, cake forgotten, was now staring fixedly at the old lady and remembering the day she arrived at the house.

  “The first time I met Teseris she mentioned a mirror. I thought she must be talking about Alice and the looking glass.”

  The old lady smiled gently.

  “Teseris is well beyond Alice. Videmus nunc per speculum in aenigmate. Do you know any Latin? ‘For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face. Later we’ll see everything as it is, we’ll know even as also we are known.’ ”

  Miss Prim quietly cleared her throat. Outside, snow was falling again.

  “But if you believe in all of this, why didn’t you stay with your family at the abbey this evening? Why keep that distance?”

  She picked up her cup in both fine-boned hands and finished her tea. Then, with a severe look at the librarian, she said quietly, almost in a whisper: “Because I can’t. I’m not ready yet. I don’t feel ready.”

  “Not ready for what?”

  The old lady smiled wryly. “Not ready to lay down arms, my dear. To bow this proud old head and lay down arms.”

  PART III

  Unraveling Skeins

  1

  The departure of the Man in the Wing Chair’s mother left an odd void in the house. Outside, the bitterly cold weather continued, with snow piling up on window ledges, blocking doors, freezing on tree branches. Inside, Miss Prim’s work was progressing despite frequent interruptions from the children, who burned off their inexhaustibl
e energy playing, running, and hiding in the rooms, corridors, and staircases of the house. The librarian spent her afternoons cataloguing heavy, dusty volumes, some with no more value than the fact of having been in the house for many lonely years; others were true survivors, brought long ago to San Ireneo by the family’s forebears. Miss Prim liked these books. It moved her to think of them there, on those old shelves, bearing witness to the stealthy arrival of night and the dawning of each new day.

  “I’m amazed that I’ve never once heard you sneeze, Prudencia. There’s more dust on those books than any human could possibly endure.” The Man in the Wing Chair came huffing and puffing into the library, bundled up in a scarf that nearly covered his face, a hat, thick coat, and heavy snow boots.

  “Is that really you under there?” asked the librarian jokingly.

  “Laugh all you like, but it’s fiendishly cold outside. You can’t stay out in the garden for more than half an hour,” he replied, removing his scarf, hat, gloves, and coat.

  “You should take off those boots and put something warm on. Shall I ask for tea to be brought in?”

  “Yes, if you would, I’d be really grateful. Damn, my hands are so cold I can’t untie my laces,” he complained.

  Miss Prim went over silently. She bent down, taking care not to kneel, and began undoing his bootlaces.

  “That’s very kind. Believe me, I appreciate the significance of the gesture,” he said with a smile.

  “What do you mean by that?” she asked sharply, struggling to keep her balance and untie his right boot still without kneeling.

  “That I think I can guess the symbolic resonance certain attitudes and gestures have for you.”

  “If that were so, I wouldn’t be doing this, would I?”

  “Of course you would. Your Prussian sense of duty always triumphs.”

  She pursed her lips and continued with her task.

  “I think it’s done.”

  “Thanks,” he said gently.

  Miss Prim went to fetch the tray that the cook had left on the hall table. Since their recent falling-out, the two women had tacitly agreed to avoid each other insofar as was possible. They greeted each other as they passed in the hall or came across each other in the kitchen or garden but, beyond this minimum of politeness, relations between them were as icy as the weather. The librarian was quite happy with this arrangement; after all, she was not part of the domestic staff. If she needed anything, she asked one of the three girls from the village who worked at the house as cleaners, maids of all work, and ad hoc nannies. She didn’t need to speak to the dragon at the stove, not at all.