Awakening of Miss Prim

by Natalia Sanmartin Fenollera

  And yet, she reflected as she set out the tea things on the table in front of the fire, she had to admit that Mrs. Rouan was good at her job. Her cream puffs, wonderfully light cheesecake, delicious carrot cake, and dainty sandwiches—arranged in four stacks of triangles, each with a different filling—were beyond compare. Her tea trays always featured China tea, creamy milk, and slices of toasted home-baked bread, thickly spread with butter and honey. Miss Prim was compelled to concede that this was all very much to the cook’s credit.

  The Man in the Wing Chair rubbed his hands together and observed in silence as Miss Prim performed the ritual of serving the tea. The house was unusually quiet as the children were in the greenhouse, watching the gardener take cuttings and lovingly tend the seedlings that would be planted out next year.

  “The variety of books that has accumulated in this room is fascinating,” remarked the librarian. “I’ve been playing a game, guessing which belonged to men and which to women.”

  The Man in the Wing Chair smiled, slowly stirring his tea.

  “Not very difficult. I think it’s pretty easy to identify what’s aimed at women: just check the sex of the author. It’s strange that men mostly write for both sexes, but women write for women. With a few honorable exceptions, of course.”

  Miss Prim helped herself to a foie-gras sandwich and took a deep breath before turning to him.

  “Women haven’t always written for other women,” she retorted. “It’s a fairly recent sociological phenomenon. Until around a hundred years ago, it was as common for men to read female authors as male.”

  “If less pleasurable,” said the Man in the Wing Chair with a laugh.

  The librarian put the sandwich down on her plate.

  “Would you mind telling me what you’re laughing at?” she asked frostily.

  He looked at her with calm delight.

  “At you, of course. Isn’t that what I’m always doing?”

  “And what’s funny about me at this moment, may I ask?”

  “The fact that you always have a psychosociological explanation for everything. You should learn to see the world as it is, Prudencia, not as you’d like it to be. You don’t have to be very perceptive to see that a small boy will hugely enjoy reading Treasure Island but feel quite sick at the thought of—”

  “Little Women, for instance?”

  He nodded, smiling. “Indeed, Little Women.”

  “Incidentally,” Miss Prim raised her nose self-importantly, “have you read it, finally? Or did you suddenly feel too sick to go through with it?”

  The man drew his feet away from the fire, sat up straight in his chair, and moved it closer to the table, leaning forward as if about to play chess. She in turn reclined into her armchair and folded her arms across her chest, awaiting an explanation.

  “I have read it.”

  Miss Prim’s eyes widened, but she composed herself instantly, resuming her appearance of defiance.

  “And?”

  “I have to admit, it has a certain charm.”

  “Well, well.”

  “Yes, and I don’t mind the girls reading it, but it’s of no interest to me.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean, it’s a minor novel, cloying and sentimental.”

  The librarian sat up, glowering.

  “Which is the greatest sin a human being can commit, isn’t it?” she said cuttingly. “You think sentimentality is a sort of crime, even a perversion, don’t you? Ice-cold, intelligent people don’t go in for sentiment. That’s for the common people and uneducated women.”

  The Man in the Wing Chair stretched out his legs and leaned back again.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “You’d be amazed at what good taste in literature the common man has shown at various times in history.”

  “Times that are past, never to return, I presume.”

  “I’m not sure never is the right word, though I suspect it may be. But now you mention it, I have to say that what you said about uneducated women and sentimentality is accurate. Of course nowadays the problem affects highly educated women as well.”

  “As in my case, of course.”

  “Indeed, as in your case.”

  Miss Prim clenched her jaw so tightly that her teeth ground together. Losing her temper now would be the worst thing she could do when she was being accused of sentimentality. Instead, she must prove that sentiment did not hamper proper reasoning. She struggled for a few seconds that seemed to last for ever.

  “Tell me,” she said with forced sweetness, “how do you manage to be so cold?”

  He looked up in amazement.

  “Cold? Me? You think I’m cold?”

  “You detest sentimentality; you just said so.”

  “That’s true, I do, but it doesn’t make me a cold person. Sentimentality is one thing, sentiment is another, Prudencia. Sentimentality is a pathology of the mind, or of the emotions, if you like, which swell up, outgrow their proper place, go crazy, obscure judgment. Not being sentimental doesn’t mean that one lacks feelings, but simply that one knows how to channel them. The ideal—and I’m sure you agree—is to possess a cool head and a tender heart.”

  The librarian remained silent for a few moments while she released her jaw. As usual, this discussion with him had given her a headache. She didn’t understand the logic of the conversation. How had they reached this point? When had they gone from women’s literature to the pathology of the emotions?

  “Dickens used to read Mrs. Gaskell. Your hero, Cardinal Newman, read Jane Austen. And Henry James read Edith Wharton,” she said determinedly.

  “Three good writers. Three intelligent and unsentimental women.”

  “The question is not whether they’re good or bad writers, or whether they’re sentimental. The question is whether there was a time when men—great men—read novels written by women.”

  “True,” said the Man in the Wing Chair, pushing his seat even farther away from the fireplace. “But in my opinion this is for two good reasons. One, a woman publishing a novel still had an allure of audacity; and two, women provided a reasonable but different view of the world. Nowadays women’s writing has lost its capacity to make us change our gaze, look at things in a different way. When I read a novel by a woman I get the impression that the author is doing nothing more than looking at herself.”

  Miss Prim stared fixedly at her employer. She was shocked by how easily he maintained all sorts of outrageous opinions. Most people would feel ashamed of thinking, let alone saying, such things. He said them calmly, almost cheerfully.

  “Maybe women look at themselves now because they’ve spent too long looking at others,” she muttered.

  “Come on, Prudencia, that’s much too simplistic for you.”

  “You’re wrong,” she said, leaping to her feet and going back to the shelf she’d been working on. “Nothing is too simplistic for me. I’m a woman ruled by sentiment, remember?”

  The Man in the Wing Chair stood and, gathering up his hat, coat, and scarf, headed to the library door.

  “I’d say you’re a woman who looks at herself far too much.”

  “Really?” she heard herself say in a trembling voice, her back to him. “And what about you? Do you look at yourself?”

  He turned his head and said with a half smile from the door: “I have to confess that I find it much more interesting to look at you.”

  As soon as he left the room, Miss Prim’s trembling turned into a stream of fat tears that poured silently down her face. She felt she had been insulted, ill-treated, and mocked. She was tired of the dialectical game where she was the mouse and he the cat. But one thing annoyed and hurt her more than anything else: the conviction that he was quite unaware of his ill-treatment of her and never had the slightest intention of playing any game; the awareness that the person who had caused her anguish was quite oblivious of her drama—her petty, silly drama; and the fact that, much to her regret, that person had become imp
ortant to her. He was the question mark on Hortensia and Emma’s list of potential husbands; that was the truth, and it was useless to try to hide it from herself any longer. She knew the symptoms. She knew them all too well.

  What did he really think of her? Miss Prim freely confessed her ignorance on the matter. At times he seemed attracted to her, no point denying it; but then at others he plainly saw in her all of humanity’s deformities and character flaws, making her believe that the attraction existed only in her mind. A deeply sentimental and somewhat impulsive mind, as he made sure to remind her regularly. It was also possible that his attitude was due to his interest in becoming some sort of Pygmalion and turning her into the perfect example of her sex. Miss Prim shuddered at the possibility of having to play the part of Galatea or, even worse, Eliza Doolittle, in that particular drama. But that wasn’t all: there was a third, even more terrible hypothesis, so terrible that she shivered at the thought. Maybe he spent his spare time engaging in these wide-ranging debates with her because, purely and simply, he had nothing better to do.

  At this point, the librarian’s distress overflowed. She had to do something to settle her doubts. She must do something.

  After discreetly blowing her nose, she gazed out of the French windows that opened onto the garden. Snow was still falling in large, heavy flakes. Walking to the village in such weather was unthinkable, but she needed to get there urgently. The time had come to have a frank conversation with the ladies of San Ireneo: to lay her cards on the table in the ridiculous detective game of searching for a husband, consult their opinion on the situation with her employer and ask them what she should do. As she gloomily watched the snow, sure the conversation would have to wait until the weather improved, she caught sight of the gardener emerging from the greenhouse and heading to the garage. Lightning-quick, she jumped to her feet, grabbed a warm coat, scarf, and Wellington boots, and rushed out to ask for a lift to the village.

  The journey was slow and tedious, partly because driving in the snow required extreme caution, partly because the gardener kept his mouth resolutely shut out of loyalty to the cook, with whom he had been friends for many years. At last they reached the village, and he dropped Miss Prim at Hortensia Oeillet’s house. The florist was surprised and delighted to see her.

  “My dear Prudencia, what an unexpected pleasure on such a dreadful afternoon! Come in, take off your coat, and sit down while I make tea,” she cried.

  “Please, don’t trouble yourself, I’ve just had tea. But a cup of hot chocolate would do me good. And would you mind preparing a liter of coffee?”

  Hortensia Oeillet looked at her guest in dismay.

  “A liter of coffee? My goodness, this must be serious.”

  “No, it’s not serious but it is important. I’ve come because I need advice, from you and your friends, all of you eminently sensible ladies. What I mean is, I need you to convene a sort of . . . ”

  “Extraordinary conclave?”

  Miss Prim sighed with relief.

  “Is that what you call it?”

  “It is indeed. Do sit down, dear. I’ll call Emma, Virginia, and Herminia. I think that’ll be enough. We don’t want all of San Ireneo finding out, do we?” The florist smiled affectionately and went to the kitchen.

  Miss Prim sank into the sofa in front of the fire. Hortensia Oeillet’s sitting room was small and pretty. Old photographs, vases of camellias, children’s drawings of plants—the librarian recalled that her hostess was San Ireneo’s botany teacher—pressed flowers in collages and books, lots of books, made it a very pleasant place to be.

  “What a lovely room, Hortensia!” exclaimed the librarian as the florist returned with a jug of hot chocolate, a plate of butter buns, lemon biscuits, and a large custard tart on a tray, which she set down on the table by the fire.

  “Do you like it? It is a bit old-fashioned, but here in San Ireneo we enjoy that. We live with one foot in the past, as you know, my dear.”

  Miss Prim assured her that she did know and had started to appreciate it herself.

  “Oh, I’m so pleased! I was afraid you’d never adjust—it’s so different. After all, we do live slightly on the fringe of things here.”

  “Or even contra mundum,” laughed Prudencia, accepting a cup of hot chocolate.

  “That’s true. What was I going to say? Ah, yes! Our guests are on their way; they’ll be here in five minutes and coffee will be ready in three. I’ve also invited Lulu Thiberville. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Lulu Thiberville?”

  “She’s the oldest and most respected woman in the village. She’s almost ninety-five. I asked her because she’s very wise and because . . . ” Hortensia hesitated and glanced sideways at Miss Prim “ . . . she’s outlived three husbands. You didn’t say exactly why you needed advice, but something in your face told me it might be a problem of a romantic nature, shall we say, so I thought of her.”

  The librarian blushed crimson.

  “You did the right thing. I look forward to meeting Lulu Thiberville,” she said with a smile.

  Mrs. Thiberville turned out to be a wizened little woman with a rasping, imperious voice and the gift of making herself the absolute center of attention. She was wearing an old astrakhan coat that smelled of mothballs and a small gray hat adorned with a feather.

  “So it’s you,” she said as she entered, followed by the other guests. They settled her by the fire, propping her feet on a small footstool and hovering like worker bees around their queen.

  “Well?” asked the old lady. “To what do I owe the honor?”

  Hortensia introduced the librarian and briefly set out what she knew of the situation: Miss Prim had arrived unexpectedly, anxious and upset and in need of help; she’d requested an extraordinary conclave, an unscheduled meeting of the ladies of San Ireneo to discuss an urgent matter.

  “My dear Prudencia, would you be so kind as to tell us about your problem?”

  Encouraged by Herminia Treaumont’s smile, Miss Prim began. In deferense to Lulu Thiberville, she started by explaining the eccentric method of searching for a husband that she had agreed to, and how, that afternoon, she had concluded that the question mark on the list denoted her employer. Then she described her strange, tense relationship with him, the lively conversations and confidences, the smiles and courtesies and the sudden reprimands. Endeavoring to appear calm, she confessed reluctantly that she was attracted to him. She couldn’t understand why, as he was an odd man with extreme religious beliefs, utterly insensitive, and intolerably domineering. Like all independent women, Miss Prim was opposed to domination of any kind. In her opinion, the marital relationship should be based upon the most exquisite and refined sort of equality.

  “You’re starting out all wrong,” the queen bee pronounced from her armchair.

  “Why?” asked the librarian, stunned.

  Shifting uneasily, Herminia opened her mouth to intervene, but a magisterial gesture from the old lady stayed her.

  “All this talk of equality is complete nonsense,” declared Lulu starkly.

  “But why?” Miss Prim asked again.

  “My dear Prudencia,” began Hortensia, “what Lulu means—”

  “Be quiet, Hortensia,” snapped the old lady. “I don’t need anyone to explain what I mean. I’m sure you and Emma are partly responsible for this poor girl’s distress, always going on about ridiculous Eastern theories on harmony, the whole and the parts. They’ve been on about harmony and the whole and the parts, haven’t they?”

  With an apologetic glance at her hostess, she replied that she had indeed been instructed in the theory of harmony and the whole and the parts.

  “You can forget about all that. More nonsense.”

  “Lulu, please, I’d like to—” began Hortensia gently but firmly.

  “Hortensia,” said the old lady wearily, “I assume you invited me, at my great age, to an extraordinary conclave in order to hear my opinion. Isn’t that so?”

  “Of cou
rse, my dear.”

  “Absolutely, Lulu,” concurred Herminia cautiously. “It’s just that there can be so many ways of approaching a situation like this. I’m sure Hortensia and Emma had the best of intentions when—”

  “Of course they did, Herminia. Don’t be silly. Nobody’s questioning that.” The tiny old lady straightened and fixed the librarian with a beady stare. “Pay attention, Miss Prim: you have before you a woman who’s buried three husbands. In my view, this gives me authority to speak on the matter, and from that standpoint I have to tell you that equality has nothing to do with marriage. The basis of a good marriage, a reasonably happy marriage—don’t delude yourself, there is no such thing as an entirely happy marriage—is, precisely, inequality. It’s essential if two people are to feel mutual admiration. Listen carefully to what I’m about to tell you. You must not aspire to finding a husband who’s your equal, but one who’s absolutely and completely better than you.”

  Miss Prim was about to object, but the steely glint in the old lady’s eyes gave her pause. From her seat by the fire, Virginia Pille suppressed a smirk.

  “Does that only apply to women,” asked Miss Prim, “or must men also marry women they admire?”

  “Of course they must. They must seek women who, from one or several points of view, are better than them. If you look back over history you’ll see that most great men, the truly great ones, have always chosen admirable women.”

  “But in that case admiration does not exclude equality, Mrs. Thiberville. If I admire my husband and my husband admires me, then we’re equal,” she retorted, elevating her nose a couple of degrees.