Awakening of Miss Prim

by Natalia Sanmartin Fenollera

  “Come on, Prudencia, surely you’ve got time to say goodbye?”

  Elbows resting on the parapet, she thought for a moment.

  “You’re right. Let me get my coat and I’ll be straight down.”

  Hurrying downstairs, the librarian realized she had been invaded by a familiar anxiety which she hated to admit she hadn’t mastered—despite the sleepless nights, all the conversations and confidences, the tears spilled; despite the rebukes and well-meaning advice she’d received on the absurdity of her sudden access of love—despite it all, she hadn’t mastered the anxiety. She hadn’t overcome that upset, that violent disturbance which had plunged her perfectly and carefully cultivated equilibrium to the bottom of the ocean.

  “You should take more exercise; you’re very flushed.”

  “Oh!” she said, wondering for the umpteenth time why he seemed unable to appreciate the distinction between honesty and tactlessness.

  It was cold—intensely, bleakly cold—as they headed to the south side of the garden where an old wooden summerhouse stood, full of gardening tools, empty pots, useless junk of all shapes and sizes, a white-painted table, and four decrepit garden chairs that had been around for more years than anyone could remember.

  “Why don’t you fix this place up?” asked Miss Prim, sitting down on one of the chairs.

  “Because I like it like this.”

  “Why?” Somewhere inside her the librarian could hear a clashing of swords.

  He regarded her in silence, as if gauging whether her question had been innocent or more of a provocation.

  “Why what?”

  “Why do you only like old things?”

  “That’s not quite true. I like some new things.”

  “Really?” she asked. “Name one.”

  He smiled in a way she now understood.

  “You, for instance.”

  She sighed in feigned dismay.

  “I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment. I’m glad you don’t think of me as old, but I’m not sure it’s flattering to be considered a thing.”

  He laughed and she felt her eyes fill with tears. She lowered her head and, when she looked up, her eyes met his.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “The thought of leaving makes me sad.”

  “Really?”

  Miss Prim looked at him with a mixture of surprise and reproach.

  “Of course,” she said, eyes glistening.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he said, “because I’m sorry you’re leaving too. You’ve been a marvelous opponent, as well as great company. I’ll miss our arguments.”

  She dropped her gaze, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.

  “Don’t lie. You know perfectly well that I’ve never been any sort of opponent for you. You’ve won all the arguments, you’ve twisted my words, and you’ve always done me the favor of infuriating me.”

  “That’s a favor?” he said wryly.

  “Yes,” she said, unbowed. “When I arrived I was reluctant to entertain any viewpoint other than my own. In that respect I’m afraid I’m rather like you.”

  “Well, I have to admit that your attacks have helped me understand certain things.”

  Resisting the urge to say she had never attacked anyone, Miss Prim straightened slightly in her chair and leaned forward.

  “Such as?” she asked.

  “Such as what you call delicacy, I suppose.”

  “That surprises me,” she said, pleased. “I thought you despised it.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “I thought you considered it—how shall I put it?—a soft quality.”

  “I consider it a feminine attribute.” Prudencia grimaced. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t think it can, or even should, be present in a man’s character.”

  “But it’s not in yours.”

  “No. That’s why knowing you has been so enriching.”

  They were quiet for a few minutes, watching the falling snow through the summerhouse windows.

  Then Miss Prim said: “I’d like to thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For nothing, and for everything. I just think I should. I’ll probably realize at some stage that I should have thanked you and, when that happens, I don’t want to feel that I missed my chance. Do you see?”

  “Not at all,” he said baldly.

  She stared at him, crestfallen, wondering how such brilliance and such exasperating, blunt, pigheaded insensitivity could coexist within the same person. She felt she’d been perfectly clear. Half of humanity, if not all, had at some time experienced the intuition, the conviction that they should thank someone for something. But many had let the words die on their lips, and Miss Prim didn’t want to be one of them.

  “You are a strange person. You absolutely lack empathy,” she said.

  “And yet you are fond of me,” he said.

  “Vanity is another of your great faults,” she continued, unperturbed. “I’d say I respect you. With that, I think I’ve said enough.”

  The Man in the Wing Chair smiled.

  “But we’re friends, even so,” he said, looking into her eyes.

  “We are,” she replied in a whisper. Then, in one of the emotional outbursts that seized her occasionally and made her say things abruptly and almost breathlessly, she added: “Do you really believe that love between two very different people is impossible?”

  He stood up and pulled the door of the old summerhouse half closed so the snow didn’t blow in.

  “I’ve never said that,” he replied, returning to his seat. “No, I don’t think it’s impossible. I’d say it’s very common.”

  “But you . . . ” stammered Miss Prim, astonished by the strange recklessness that had impelled her to say such a thing, “you and Herminia . . . ”

  “We separated because we were very different?” The Man in the Wing Chair shook his head. “You haven’t understood, Prudencia. You haven’t understood at all what I tried to explain the other day.”

  “Perhaps you didn’t explain it well,” she replied coolly, annoyed by the idea of being classified as a person who understood nothing. “Perhaps you were too cryptic.”

  “Right, well, I’ll make it easy then.”

  Miss Prim wondered if, in defense of her own dignity, she shouldn’t object to this didactic condescension but, as so often with her employer, curiosity overcame pride.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Imagine for a moment that you and I—two very different people—decided to go to St. Petersburg together. Are you following me?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “You’ll agree that we would probably argue for the entire trip.”

  “Very probably.”

  “I’d want to stay in monasteries and converse with old starets, whereas you would insist on booking luxurious, spotlessly clean hotels. I’d want to meander through small, insignificant villages and hamlets on our way; you’d no doubt have our route strictly planned and would find it annoying to stop off at places with little historic or cultural interest. But eventually, despite all these difficulties, you and I would arrive in St. Petersburg.”

  “And what then?” asked the librarian, resting her elbows on the table.

  “Let me continue, I’m doing my best not to be cryptic. Now imagine that we decided to go on another journey. But this time you wanted to go to St. Petersburg and I wanted to go to Tahiti. What do you think would happen?”

  Miss Prim smiled sadly.

  “Sooner or later we’d go our separate ways,” she said.

  “I see you understand now.”

  “Unless,” said the librarian softly after a long pause, “unless I convinced you to go to St. Petersburg instead of Tahiti.”

  He took off his gloves and regarded her with interest.

  “But that’s part of the problem, Prudencia. I don’t want anyone convincing me to go to St. Petersburg, and if I thought there was any chance of anyone succeeding, I wouldn’t take the risk.�
��

  “But also, the thing is,” Miss Prim searched for the words, “the thing is, you might convince me to go to Tahiti.”

  The Man in the Wing Chair was silent for a moment that seemed to the librarian to last an eternity.

  “I’d go to the ends of the earth to convince you to come to Tahiti,” he said with a strange intensity to his voice. “I’d do anything in my power, absolutely anything. But I think the journey would be a failure—a terrible failure—unless you were sure at the outset you wanted to know Tahiti.”

  “You’ve never tried to convince me to go to Tahiti,” she said quietly.

  “How do you know?”

  “How do I know what?”

  “How do you know I haven’t tried?”

  “Because you’ve never forced or pressured me into anything. You’ve never done anything to try to convince me. That’s probably why we’re friends; you’ve always respected my opinions.”

  He leaned back in the battered metal summerhouse chair.

  “That’s true. I’ve never forced or pressured you. But if I haven’t, it’s only because I thought it would be counterproductive. Don’t attribute virtues to me—since you consider it a virtue—that I don’t possess.”

  “Whatever the reason,” said the librarian, “you haven’t gone to the ends of the earth to persuade me to join you in Tahiti.”

  “You don’t think so?” he asked with a smile. “Perhaps one day you’ll realize that one can go to the ends of the earth without leaving one’s room, Prudencia.”

  “Now you’re being cryptic again,” she said, then went on in a jesting tone: “Tell me something. If I’d wanted to go to Tahiti, if I’d never thought of going to St. Petersburg, would you have dared invite me on that journey with you?”

  The Man in the Wing Chair bowed his head with a smile.

  Then, looking into her eyes, he asked softly: “And what about you? Would you have come?”

  She was about to reply when the gardener’s wrinkled, sullen face appeared at the door.

  “It’s time, miss.”

  Flushed, Miss Prim got to her feet. Rising at the same time, her employer held out his hand and said: “It’s very cold in St. Petersburg, Prudencia. I know, I’ve been there. But maybe some day . . . ” He broke off.

  She crept to the door without a word. On the threshold, she turned and looked at the Man in the Wing Chair one last time.

  “I don’t think so,” she whispered.

  Miss Prim did not turn to take a last look at the house and garden. In accordance with her wishes, which had been expressed as firmly as a military order, neither the children, nor the cook, nor the girls from the village, nor even the Man in the Wing Chair were at the door to see her off. Miss Prim disliked farewells. Despite all the unfounded accusations of sentimentality, she was very conscious that she wasn’t comfortable with emotional scenes: she didn’t know how to handle them or how to strike the right tone. This couldn’t be said of him, she reflected as she huddled in the back of the car and glanced out of the corner of her eye at the gardener’s solemn face. The Man in the Wing Chair always, or almost always, knew how to behave; was capable at all times of finding the appropriate look, the happy or serious expression. Miss Prim believed it came down to manners. Not the kind that could be acquired from magazines, or books on etiquette, or even the kind displayed by people who boasted of having good manners. What he had, and she appreciated it, was quite different, perhaps because it couldn’t be studied or emulated. It couldn’t be taught or learned. It was simply breathed in. It seemed so natural, so simple, so intrinsic to the person that it took you some time—a few weeks, even months—to realize how serenely harmonious such behavior was. Magazine columns, books on etiquette, and correspondence courses couldn’t compete with a code instilled from the cradle, perfected over the centuries since the forgotten dawn of chivalry and courtly love.

  As she mused, the car rounded a bend in the road and the huge, solid structure of the abbey of San Ireneo came into view. The librarian contemplated its ancient stone walls, admired its symmetrical beauty, and then glanced at her watch. She had plenty of time to get to the station. She had allowed almost two hours for a journey that took half an hour by car; Miss Prim was a staunch advocate not only of punctuality but also, and above all, of precaution. Out of respect for precaution she had decided to set out two hours early and by that glorious virtue, at that precise moment, without knowing why or even how, she felt a strong urge to meet the venerable monk who lived within those walls, the elderly man whom she had so assiduously avoided throughout that long cold winter in San Ireneo de Arnois.

  “Could we stop at the monastery for a moment?” she asked the gardener.

  “Of course, miss. Do you want to buy some of their honey?”

  “No,” she replied, meeting his gaze in the rearview mirror. “Actually, I’d like to have a quick word with the padre.”

  “With the padre?” asked the gardener, flabbergasted. “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure,” she said, lifting her chin resolutely. “Could you help me?”

  “Of course,” said the gardener, taking the turn that skirted the fields and led straight to the abbey.

  After speaking to the monk at the gatehouse, Miss Prim entered the monastery and was ushered to the reception rooms, where she was told to wait. She stared at the bare walls until a young monk, wearing an apron over his habit, greeted her warmly and asked her to follow him to the vegetable garden.

  “He’s getting some fresh air,” said the monk by way of explanation, apparently seeing nothing unusual in this on a morning when the temperature was several degrees below zero.

  She was led down a corridor, through a hushed, austere cloister, and eventually to a corner of a small kitchen garden where a very elderly man was sitting on a bench.

  “Miss Prim has come to see you,” said the young monk, before indicating to the librarian that she should approach.

  The old man sat up, dismissing the younger man with a tender smile, and invited his visitor to sit beside him.

  “Please, take a seat,” he said in a low tone. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  “Have you?” she asked, worried he had mistaken her for someone else. “I’m not sure if you know who I am, Father. My name’s Prudencia Prim and I’ve been working as a librarian for the past few months at—”

  “I know exactly who you are,” interrupted the monk gently. “I’ve been waiting for you. You’ve taken a long time.”

  Miss Prim observed the old man’s wrinkled face and thin, frail body and wondered if he was of sound mind.

  “They’ve often talked about you,” he said, and she thought she glimpsed delight in his eyes.

  “They? Do you mean the man I work for?”

  “I mean all the people who know you and are fond of you.”

  She blushed with pleasure. It had never occurred to her that anyone might visit the ancient monk and mention her. She’d never dreamed that her presence could have penetrated those rigid walls, filtering into the Benedictine’s routine of silent contemplation.

  Before she could say anything, the monk continued: “You’re going to Italy.”

  Miss Prim replied that yes, indeed, she was.

  “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Yes.”

  She frowned a little. She was reluctant to explain herself. The circumstances and reasoning behind her departure were private and she had no desire to share her private life with the old man. And more to the point, she thought suddenly, did she herself really know why she was leaving?

  “I suppose I’m not entirely sure. If you asked people who know me you’d get different answers. Some would say I’m going because I’ve been disappointed in love, others because I need to shed my modern hardness, and yet others would claim I’m leaving to look for a husband.”

  The monk smiled suddenly and his open, serene expression immediately set his guest at ease.

  “And you,” he said, “
why do you think you’re leaving?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied simply.

  “People who leave a place without reason are either running away, or seeking something. Which is it for you?”

  She contemplated her answer for a long time. When she spoke, she saw that the old man had closed his eyes.

  “Both, I think,” she said quietly, afraid that he might be asleep. “Perhaps that’s what I need to find out.”

  He gradually opened his eyes and stared at the snow-covered vegetable garden.

  “Can I ask you something?” he said, as if he hadn’t heard his visitor’s last words. “How do you close doors? Do you leave them ajar, pull them to gently, or slam them shut?”

  Miss Prim’s eyes widened in surprise, but seconds later she recovered her composure. Now she was sure: the old man was senile.

  “I think I leave them ajar, or close them gently. I definitely never slam them.”

  “As novices, Carthusians are taught to turn around and close doors without pushing them or letting them swing shut. Do you know why?”

  Miss Prim replied that she had no idea.

  “So that they learn not to rush, to do one thing after another. So as to train them in restraint, patience, silence, and mindfulness in every gesture.” He paused. “You must be wondering why I’m telling you this. It’s because this is the spirit in which to set out on a journey—any journey. If you travel in a hurry, without pausing or resting, you’ll return without having found what you’re looking for.”

  “The problem is,” she replied, having pondered his words, “I’m not sure what I’m looking for.”

  He looked at her with compassion.

  “Then perhaps the journey will enable you to find out.”

  Miss Prim sighed. She’d been afraid that the old monk would try to discern the black holes in her life, that his eyes would bore into her and see her darkest secrets. But he wasn’t the intimidating visionary with a foot in each world whom she’d so feared meeting. He was just a kindly, tired little old man.

  “I was told you could read minds. I was warned you’d tell me things that would surprise and upset me,” she blurted.

  He shivered in his worn habit before responding very gently.