Awakening of Miss Prim

by Natalia Sanmartin Fenollera

  Horacio smiled as he took a cigar from his breast pocket.

  “Do you mind if I smoke, my dear?”

  Calling upon her unwavering sense of what was polite, Miss Prim assured him that she didn’t mind in the least.

  “I’ve never understood why people enjoy cigars,” she said pleasantly. “They have such a strong smell. Why don’t you smoke a pipe? It’s very dashing, and smells so much better.”

  Her host lit the cigar and drew on it deeply, peering at his guest through the smoke.

  “Because a pipe requires commitment, Prudencia. A pipe requires perseverance, loyalty, and commitment. In a way, and to make it quite clear, the cigar is to romance what the pipe is to marriage.”

  The librarian laughed, regarding him with affection.

  “And now what?” he asked suddenly. “Where will you go?”

  “To Italy, I’ve told you.”

  “So you’re going through with it? I thought you were just saying that. Surely you don’t believe all that nonsense about needing to live in Italy to round off your education?”

  A little queasy from the cigar smoke but determined not to let it show, Miss Prim seemed for a moment to be lost in thought.

  “No, I don’t believe it,” she said at last. “I’m not going there for my education, Horacio. I’m looking for fulfillment. I’m looking for beauty and perfection.”

  “I see. And you think you’ll find that in Italy?”

  She stood up again and went to the window. The garden was covered in a thick blanket of snow. The branches of the ancient trees stood out against it like hard, dark charcoal strokes.

  “I don’t know,” she sighed. “I realize that what I’m looking for may not exist, that I may never find it. But, having said that, is there anywhere in the world as full of beauty as Italy?”

  Suddenly aware of his guest’s growing pallor, Horacio extinguished his cigar and looked at her fondly.

  “I want you to know how much I’ve come to value your friendship, my dear. I’ll miss you with all my heart.”

  Touched, Miss Prim went to her friend and, perching on the arm of his chair, took his hand in hers.

  “I’d never have fitted in here if it hadn’t been for you. I wouldn’t have understood the little I’ve understood without your help, your gentlemanliness, and your company. I’m more grateful than I could ever express, Horacio.”

  “Nonsense,” he replied, trying to conceal his emotion by tightly squeezing her hand.

  And, after a long silence, he added tenderly: “Will you ever come back?”

  She too was quiet for a moment before answering.

  “I wish I knew, Horacio. I wish it was possible to know.”

  Hortensia Oeillet was making up a colorful bouquet of peonies and roses when she glimpsed Miss Prim through her shop window. Delighted, she smiled to herself, quickly hid the flowers behind the counter, and rushed out to the back to put the kettle on. She was just bringing out a carrot cake from the pantry when she heard the tinkling of the bell above the door.

  “I saw you cross the street,” she said, embracing the librarian. “Virginia, Emma, and Herminia are on their way. I’ll put the Closed sign up so that absolutely no one disturbs us. So you’re leaving in a week? You don’t know how sorry I am.”

  Miss Prim followed the florist out to the back room. A cheerful fire was lit in the fireplace and the small tea table, on which Hortensia also did her accounts, was covered with a blue damask tablecloth and laden with food. The librarian smiled and breathed in the fragrance of the tea as it brewed.

  “Oh, I’m going to miss San Ireneo’s old-fashioned, civilized ways so much!” she said, winking at her hostess.

  “It’s only a small farewell tea,” said Hortensia with a smile. “Each one of us has contributed something. Emma baked a lemon sponge and the cheesecake whose recipe she refuses to give anyone. Herminia made the foie gras and apple sandwiches and the roast-beef canapés. Virginia brought her Krasnodar tea; and the carrot cake and toast, butter and honey are my contributions. It’s a shame we don’t have one of your wonderful birthday tarts.”

  “It’s Mrs. Rouan’s tart now, too,” said Miss Prim as she sat down by the fire. “It’s a shared secret.”

  “Really? Mrs. Rouan is a good woman, if a little stubborn,” said her hostess, placing the teapot on the table.

  “As am I.”

  As they chatted, the other guests began arriving at the flower shop: first, Emma Giovanacci, out of breath; then, Virginia Pille, so well wrapped up in her thick camel coat that she was almost unrecognizable; and last, Herminia Treaumont, as delicate and exquisite as a flower.

  “Any second thoughts, Prudencia?” asked the editor of San Ireneo’s newspaper a few minutes later as the five women were enjoying the food and merry conversation around the fire.

  They all looked expectantly at the librarian as she swallowed her mouthful of roast-beef canapé before answering.

  “You were right, Herminia, as always. Now that I’m sure of it, I can’t stay.”

  “I wish I hadn’t been,” replied Herminia, with a pained expression. “I know I wasn’t very tactful that evening. I’ve thought it over a lot since then, and I realize I should have taken you aside and told you sooner. I’d like to apologize now, in front of everyone, and I hope you believe me when I say I never wanted to hurt you.”

  Miss Prim smiled and, moving nearer to the table, tenderly laid her hand on her friend’s.

  “I never thought you did. Now that we’re being open, I have to confess that I would have preferred to have been told in private, but I never doubted you meant well. Of course,” she said with a wink, “I have felt very jealous of you.”

  “Really? There was absolutely no reason to, I can assure you. He’s very fond of me, but not in any way that might trouble you.”

  Hortensia rose from the table and went to refill the pot. The aroma of Krasnodar tea again pervaded the room.

  “Well, now that that’s all over,” said Emma cheerfully, “and just in case anyone hasn’t noticed, we’ve clearly got a real heartbreaker here in San Ireneo de Arnois. And the most interesting thing is that he has no idea he’s doing it.”

  They all laughed and refilled their cups.

  “Oh, I’m sure he knows,” said Virginia. “How could he not? I’m not saying he does it on purpose—he’s an absolute gentleman in the sense we still give the word here—but how could you be unaware of something like that?”

  Prudencia seemed to ponder the question as she dithered over whether to have a slice of carrot cake or a piece of buttered toast with honey.

  “All I can say,” she said, opting for the cake, “is that he’s never consciously toyed with my feelings or tried to take advantage of the situation. He’s always behaved with perfect courtesy.”

  “Of course, Prudencia. Of course he has. But that’s the point, isn’t it?” said Hortensia.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The attraction of courtesy, of course. Is anything more powerful?”

  “Do you think so?” asked Miss Prim, interested. “I had the impression it was the other way around, that women were supposed to be attracted to cads.”

  The florist and the other guests shook their heads vehemently.

  “That’s not true, Prudencia, at least not if we’re talking about adult, emotionally balanced women,” said Virginia, swallowing a mouthful of lemon cake. “Of course, we know what you mean. All young girls experience the kind of obscure attraction you refer to, but things change when they grow up.”

  “I’m not sure that’s right, Virginia,” said Miss Prim. “It would speak well of our intelligence and good sense, but I fear it’s not so. The world is full of grown women who are in dreadful relationships with deeply dishonest men.”

  “It’s not a matter of chronological maturity, Prudencia. And those women aren’t the majority, in any case,” insisted the bookseller.

  Herminia topped up her teacup before settling back in her
chair.

  “I expect it seems a little obsessive, always returning to the same source, but what about the duel between Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham? Or the confrontation between Mr. Knightley and Frank Churchill? I’m convinced Jane Austen is the touchstone here. I don’t think you’d find a single woman who, on reading Pride and Prejudice, would choose Mr. Wickham rather than Mr. Darcy, or after Emma would pine for Frank Churchill and despise Mr. Knightley. Do you remember I once said to you that men hate Mr. Darcy because they feel dull by comparison? And women adore him because, once he’s repented of his pride, he’s the ideal man—strong, sincere, and honest.”

  “And rich, you’re forgetting that. Ten thousand pounds a year would make anyone attractive,” Emma pointed out wickedly.

  “This is all true,” said the librarian, eyes shining. “But unfortunately the modern world thinks otherwise. Very few women nowadays read nineteenth-century English novels.”

  Emma sighed.

  “We’ve strayed off the subject, ladies. The question was: Is our man aware of what he’s doing, as Virginia claims, or is it rather a case of what one might call collateral damage?”

  “I’ve always thought he was very like his father,” said Hortensia. “He was perfectly well aware of his effect on women.”

  Miss Prim stopped eating, intrigued.

  “You knew his father?”

  “Of course,” replied the florist. “I’m one of the few residents of San Ireneo who lived here before the community was created.”

  “What was he like?”

  “A real swine, but an attractive swine, and he had class—attractive until you realized he was a swine.”

  The librarian was curious.

  “When you say he was a swine, what do you mean, exactly?”

  “He was in the habit of abandoning his family. There was always another woman, but it never lasted long. That’s typical of men like that. I’ve known lots, and they never change. I suppose he loved his wife. She was a great beauty, and is still a handsome woman today. But that didn’t stop him going off with a different woman as soon as her back was turned. It was very painful for her. Very painful.”

  “What about the children?”

  “They suffered in a different way, because he was a very loving father. They suffered when their mother, who had had enough, decided not to take him back.”

  Miss Prim recalled sitting beneath a camellia one icy evening as the old lady spoke bitterly of choosing between two paths.

  “So that was it,” she whispered.

  “It’s very difficult to judge in such situations. Many women would have done exactly the same; but the children adored their father and suffered hugely when they separated. She never relented, never let him back into her life, and she also made it difficult for him to see the children. He died alone and far away from all of them.”

  Herminia stood up to put more logs on the fire.

  “So, what do we conclude?” asked Virginia with a deep sigh. “Is our Man in the Wing Chair aware of his appeal, or is he entirely oblivious of the havoc he wreaks?”

  They all stared expectantly at Prudencia, who smiled and then drained her third cup of tea.

  “I’d say he has no idea,” she said softly. “And that, precisely, is his charm.”

  5

  Miss Prim had not expected to find it so difficult to say good-bye to the children. If anyone had predicted as much upon her arrival in San Ireneo, she’d have given a dismissive smile and a look that said on your way. She’d never been especially inclined to glow with maternal tenderness at the sight of children. It wasn’t that she disliked them, but their charm would not be fully revealed until she was a parent herself and, even then, she would remain gratifyingly confined to her own offspring. Miss Prim was not one of those women who stop in the street to coo over babies, or strike up conversations with toddlers swinging from their parents’ hands in a cinema queue, or joyfully improvise ball games with lively throngs of schoolchildren. So she was shocked by how emotional she felt at the thought of leaving the four children she’d lived with for the past few months.

  “Will we never see you again?” little Eksi asked after she had told them the news.

  The four children were gathered around Miss Prim in the library, as solemn as a council of war.

  She paused at length before replying.

  “Never is rather a strong word. Who knows what might happen? Maybe we’ll see one another again sooner than you think. Maybe you’ll go to Italy to study Bernini and Giotto and we’ll meet there.”

  The children looked doubtful, so she went on.

  “Imagine you’re going to visit the Basilica of St. Francis, for instance. Do you know where that is?”

  “In Assisi,” replied Teseris from the aged ottoman.

  “That’s right,” said the librarian brightly, “it is in Assisi. Imagine you’re there to see Giotto’s frescoes. You walk through the Upper Basilica, overawed by the beauty of the walls and ceilings decorated with scenes from the life of Il Poverello, and as you’re engrossed in admiring the paintings, you hear a familiar voice behind you say . . . ”

  “ ‘Don’t even think about touching them!’ ” exclaimed Deka with an impish grin.

  Miss Prim winked at the little boy as she opened a tin of apple biscuits. Then Septimus spoke from the depths of his uncle’s wing chair.

  “I don’t think we’ll be able to visit you in Assisi. We already know it. We went there when we were small.”

  The librarian suppressed a smile and began handing out biscuits.

  “I don’t think we will ever see you again,” said Eksi sadly from the rug. “You’ll go to Italy and have adventures and never want to come back, like Robert Browning’s wife.”

  Miss Prim laughed.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. My trip is nothing like hers. She was called Elizabeth Barrett, by the way. She was in love, and she left for love, remember?”

  “You too,” said the little girl with conviction.

  “Me?” said the librarian, taken aback. “For love? That’s ridiculous! I’m doing no such thing. What gave you that idea?”

  “It’s not my idea, it’s the gardener’s,” the child replied.

  “He hears everything through the library window,” her older brother confirmed. “He can probably hear us now.”

  Miss Prim shot a furtive glance at the window to make sure it was firmly closed.

  “The gardener couldn’t have heard something that isn’t true. Do you really think if I were going to Italy for love I’d tell anyone? Anyway, you shouldn’t snoop or spread gossip, it’s not a nice habit. I’m sure the gardener got it wrong. He wasn’t talking about me.”

  “He was talking about you,” said Deka, adamant.

  The librarian handed around the biscuits a second time while trying to think how to get out of this fix.

  “How do you know? Did he mention my name?”

  The children exchanged eloquent looks.

  “If we tell you, will you be cross with him?” asked Septimus warily.

  “Of course not.”

  After a moment, during which he seemed to be weighing whether she meant what she’d said, the boy continued.

  “What he said was: ‘She’s going to Italy to look for a husband.’ She means you. That’s what he calls you,” he explained.

  Miss Prim took a deep breath but said nothing. A grave silence reigned in the room for a few minutes. Then a sound at the door made them all turn: the two enormous dogs came in, brushing against the librarian’s knees and flopping down on the rug.

  “She,” muttered the librarian.

  Then she addressed the children.

  “Will you miss me when I go?”

  “Of course, though we won’t know for sure until after you’ve left,” replied Septimus philosophically.

  “We weren’t sorry when the others left,” added Teseris in an undertone. “But they weren’t like you.”

  Miss Prim stared into the fire. Her
eyes stung with a pleasant, watery sting. She felt comforted by the children’s honesty, the simplicity with which they spoke of what they disliked and what they loved, the lack of duplicity in their opinions, the absence of the tangled skeins that so often complicated adult relationships.

  “He likes you too. He’s sad you’re leaving,” declared Eksi, stroking the shaggy fur of one of the dogs.

  Prudencia blushed and averted her eyes, staring into the fire once more.

  “I’m sure he liked the previous librarian too. What he likes is for the work to be done well, that’s all.”

  “He didn’t like the one before that because he kicked the dogs.”

  “Really?” said Miss Prim, horrified.

  The children nodded.

  “I’d like to go to Italy with you,” said Eksi. “We could study things and you could look for that husband.”

  For a moment Miss Prim pictured herself walking around Florence, wandering in a blissful haze into the Accademia, then standing enraptured before Michelangelo’s David. She imagined a figure who appeared at her side and whispered mockingly into her ear: “Are you ready to take out your ruler and compasses?”

  “I have no intention of looking for a husband, Eksi, really I haven’t,” she said sternly, unsettled by her vision.

  “Miss Prim,” Teseris’s voice had a dreamlike quality, “I think we will see you again.”

  Prudencia stroked the hair of the three children sprawled on the rug and directed an affectionate look at the little girl lying on the ottoman.

  “Do you really think so?” she asked with a smile.

  The child nodded.

  “Then I’m sure you’re right. Absolutely sure.”

  Lulu Thiberville’s note came as a surprise to Miss Prim. The news that the old lady wanted to say good-bye to her made her feel deeply anxious. She was an imposing personality—the librarian had been very conscious of it the afternoon they met—and Miss Prim believed that imposing personalities, like forces of nature, were dangerous and unpredictable. As she walked through the village to the Thiberville house, she scattered greetings and salutations among shopkeepers and residents. All responded warmly. A wave for the butcher, who had told her how to cook the Christmas turkey. A smile for the cobbler, who had taken such good care of her shoes over the past few months. A few words with the owner of the stationery shop, who reserved a pack of her handmade notepaper for Miss Prim every month since she had adopted the local custom of writing letters. She went into the doctor’s surgery, to thank him for the cough syrup he’d prescribed for the children a couple of weeks earlier. And she said good-bye to the owners of the haberdashery where she bought her underwear, since she now knew it to be of equal or superior quality to any in the city.