Back at the house, Miss Prim opened the garden gate and proceeded along the stately autumnal hydrangea path with a distracted air. She’d never considered the possibility of teaching any child anything. Or any adult, for that matter. She didn’t even know if she could, and besides, he hadn’t asked her to and probably wouldn’t even approve. She could still remember the look of disappointment that passed across his face on the afternoon she arrived, when she’d confessed that she had a considerable number of qualifications.
“Damn him and his arrogance,” she muttered indignantly.
She was not going to concern herself with the children. She had quite enough to do with her own work.
4
A little over a month after her meeting with Horacio, Miss Prim began to notice the undertaking of the first attempts to remedy her unmarried state. At first she didn’t attach much importance to them; after all, it was rather flattering to know that she was the focus of village gossip. It was an exceptionally traditional community and, as such, its members probably wondered why a good-looking young woman like her wasn’t married, or at least engaged. So when, one morning, Madame Oeillet, owner of the biggest flower shop in the village, asked with a wink where she’d left her wedding ring, Miss Prim was not surprised.
“I’m not married, if that’s what you mean,” she said with a smile, examining a bunch of Papaver rhoeas, which was how the librarian referred to what the rest of the world calls poppies.
Madame Oeillet confirmed that this was exactly what she meant. Women in San Ireneo de Arnois tended to have husbands. It wasn’t compulsory, but it was advisable. And women like Miss Prim seemed naturally suited to marriage. An attractive face, good figure, refined manners, cultured mind—all these gifts indicated that the end for which Miss Prim had been created, the ultimate purpose of her existence, was none other than matrimony.
“You’re very kind, but I have no intention of ever getting married,” she said firmly. “I’m not in favor of marriage; for me, it makes no sense.”
The florist smiled very sweetly, surprising the librarian. She had not expected a smile in reply. An angry look, an exclamation of astonishment, a shocked, cutting remark: these would have been appropriate. Women like Madame Oeillet, who came through their middle years splendidly and sailed on into old age with the solid dignity of a steamship, tended to be scandalized by public declarations of opposition to marriage. This was the natural response, the decent reaction in such situations. And Miss Prim, who had been brought up in a household rigidly shaped by discipline, liked people to react as they should.
“I quite agree!” exclaimed the florist at last after a lengthy sigh. “Marriage nowadays has become a simple legal agreement, with all the red tape, those chilly municipal offices and registries, all those prenuptial agreements and laws that debase everything. If I were you and had to get married in this day and age, I would not sign that. Definitely not.”
Miss Prim, now focusing her attention on a centerpiece of Zinnia elegans, wondered if the florist was in her right mind. Hadn’t she just said she considered her made for marriage? Hadn’t she made mention of her obvious vocation for conjugal life? Hadn’t she praised her attractive face, good manners, and the fact that she was hugely cultured?
“Please don’t take offense,” the lady continued with the utmost courtesy, “but I often wonder how anyone could imagine public officials being involved with marriage in any way. It seems almost like a contradiction! Marriage can be many things, both good and bad, but you must agree that none of them has much to do with bureaucracy.”
Miss Prim, who couldn’t decide whether to buy the zinnias as well, agreed that bureaucracy and marriage were indeed mutually exclusive realities. As she was paying for the bunch of Papaver rhoeas, she reflected on the extraordinary fact that she and Madame Oeillet were in absolute agreement on the matter, despite approaching the problem from completely different angles. They disagreed about marriage, that was clear. But so was the fact that they agreed completely on what marital union was not and could never be.
She was just coming out of the florist’s when she bumped into the Man in the Wing Chair. Surprised and annoyed, she mumbled something about some business at the post office, a remark he seemed to decide to ignore.
“Miss Prim with poppies . . . it sounds like the title of a painting. Please, let me help you with those. I’ll come with you, if you like.”
“You’re very kind,” she replied coldly.
The Man in the Wing Chair took the bunch of flowers and walked beside her.
“I see you’ve been chatting with Hortensia Oeillet. And naturally she’ll have asked you why you’re not married. Am I right?” he said with a smile.
“That woman has strange ideas about marriage,” she replied.
“What you mean by that cryptic remark is that they differ from yours, I suppose.”
“Of course they do. I’m totally opposed to marriage.”
“Really?”
“I consider it a useless institution and one in decline.”
“Interesting you should say that,” he reflected. “Because I have the opposite impression. It seems to me that nowadays everyone wants to get married. I don’t know if you’re aware, but all kinds of people are claiming their right to marry, not to mention all the people who declare their faith in the institution while marrying as many times as possible in their lifetime. I can’t get over how interesting it is that you’re against it. In my opinion, it’s proof of a touching innocence.”
“You’re in favor, of course.”
“Completely in favor. I’m a staunch supporter of marriage; that’s why I’m emphatically opposed to the civil authorities being involved in it. I’m in the same camp as Hortensia—I find it surprising to see a public official at a wedding. Unless he’s one of the betrothed or a guest, of course.”
Miss Prim looked down to hide her smile.
“And does everyone around here think like you and Madame Oeillet?”
“I’d say they’re all here because they think like me and Madame Oeillet, which is something quite different.”
She did not understand what was meant by this reply, but she refrained from commenting. She didn’t want to start another argument. Her instinct for self-preservation told her that when she argued with her employer, she was bound to lose. She’d always considered herself an excellent debater—people often feared her debating skills—but now she had met someone who comprehensively bettered her in this area. Someone irritating, who knew how to steer arguments into difficult territory and twist them to unlikely extremes, making her feel ridiculous and unsure of herself.
“ ‘San Ireneo Feminist League,’ ” she read aloud on a small notice beside a house that was almost completely concealed by a vast tangle of ivy. “I’m surprised there are any feminists in San Ireneo. It’s all a bit too modern for this place, isn’t it?” she asked in a teasing tone.
Her companion stopped, lowered his gaze to meet hers, and burst out laughing.
“Do you really think so? Do you really think that feminism is something modern?” he asked, grinning. “Really, Prudencia, you are quite delightful.”
Miss Prim opened her mouth to object to this show of disrespect, but thought better of it.
“It depends what you’re comparing it to,” she said, rather put out. “There are more modern movements, but you can’t deny that feminism was liberating in its early days. And I say this even though I don’t number myself in its ranks; you’ll never see me flying the flag for it.”
“I’m relieved to hear it.”
She blushed but said nothing.
“Even so, I can’t say I share your view of the supposedly liberating origins of the movement,” he continued. “You’ve obviously never heard of Carrie Nation and her famous hatchet.”
Miss Prim bit her lip. She knew exactly what was coming. She knew the man well enough by now: that the reference to the hatchet and its owner was simply bait, so that he could proceed t
o give another of his master classes. She wanted to deny him that satisfaction, wished it fervently, was absolutely determined; but in the end curiosity got the better of her.
“Carrie Nation and her hatchet?”
“You don’t know who she is?”
“No. Are you making her up?”
“Making her up? How could you think such a thing?” he protested in an offended tone. “For your information, Carrie Nation was the founder of the Temperance Movement, a tiny group that opposed the drinking of alcohol even before Prohibition. I’m sure she was a lovely old lady, but she and her friends had the bad habit of bursting into bars brandishing hatchets, with the noble aim of smashing every bottle in their path. Newspaper reports of the time describe her as almost six feet tall and weighing around twelve and a half stone, so you can imagine how liberating a scene that was. Apparently, when she died, her followers had this moving epitaph carved on her tombstone: ‘Faithful to the Cause of Prohibition, She Hath Done What She Could.’ ”
“And what has any of this got to do with feminism?” snapped Miss Prim, realizing that she was beginning to enjoy the conversation.
“Let me finish. You’ve the diabolical habit of interrupting your elders. Carrie Nation’s movement claimed that alcoholism led to domestic violence. It was therefore closely linked with the early leagues in defense of women’s rights. Many of those fanatical bar smashers were committed feminists, the kind you call liberators. Believe me, I consider Carrie Nation one of the noble forebears of the movement. All the absurdity came quite a bit later.”
Miss Prim, indignant, again chewed her lip.
“And yet you still allow feminists in this lovely village?” she asked with cold sarcasm as they reached the post office.
The Man in the Wing Chair squinted in the sunlight and shook his head thoughtfully.
“Would you like to meet them? I’m warning you, they’re not exactly what you’d expect.”
“And how do you know what I might expect? I would like to meet them, if that’s all right with you. I’m sure it would be an interesting experience,” she replied, bouncing on tiptoe as she snatched the bunch of poppies from him.
“Actually,” he said before crossing the street, “I think you had the honor of meeting their chairwoman today: our mutual friend, the amiable Hortensia Oeillet.”
Hortensia Oeillet soon sent a formal invitation to Miss Prim. The note stated that the Feminist League of San Ireneo would be delighted if she would attend their next meeting, to be held the following Tuesday. On the morning the invitation arrived, however, she was occupied with another matter. For a little more than three decades, though no one actually knew how much more, her birthday had been celebrated on that very day. It was a solemn occasion, because Prudencia Prim was of the opinion that, since only the living celebrated birthdays, this advantage over the dead should be suitably commemorated. On her birthday Miss Prim would rise at exactly seven in the morning and begin making her special birthday tart. She tied an apron around her waist, scraped back her hair, and faithfully followed the recipe her grandmother had handed down to her mother who, convinced that she would enjoy great longevity, had decided to bequeath it in life to her daughter.
Miss Prim’s tart was very popular with her small circle of friends, colleagues, and acquaintances. Even so, no one had ever been able to find out exactly what she used to create its delicious, subtle flavor. “It’s made with love,” she’d say, making light of it. Yet they all suspected that it wasn’t love so much as an ingredient foraged in the wild and added to the mixture. “If they can’t identify it, they don’t deserve to know what it is,” she said, justifying herself on those occasions—very rare—when she was assailed by pangs of guilt for guarding her secret so jealously.
“Miss Prim, did you know that Emily Brontë studied German while things were baking in the oven?” asked little Eksi out of the blue that morning, as she busied herself shaping a tiny portion of pastry taken from the main tart.
“No, dear, I had no idea, but it sounds very interesting. I suppose your uncle told you about it?”
“No, he doesn’t know much about that sort of thing. Uncle Horacio told me. He says she used to pace up and down the kitchen with a German textbook in her hand while she was keeping an eye on the bread in the oven. Isn’t that lovely?”
Miss Prim did not think that studying languages in front of a bread oven in a freezing nineteenth-century kitchen was lovely, but she refrained from saying so. That morning she felt very happy. In an unexpected gesture, the Man in the Wing Chair had given the children the day off their lessons so that they could help her with the tart. Following her instructions, the three eldest were at that moment in the garden gathering the leaves of aromatic plants for decoration, while the youngest was helping in her own way by making a miniature version of the birthday tart. The cook too had been bustling about for several hours, determined to produce a birthday menu that would make it quite clear to an outsider who was in charge of the kitchen.
The librarian, her arms dusted in flour to the elbows and cheeks flushed by her efforts, contemplated the handsome old range, which was as ancient and worn as everything else in the house. The range suggested an idyllic childhood. A childhood rich with the scent of freshly baked bread, of sweet sugary fritters, chocolate cake, biscuits, and doughnuts. The kind of childhood she herself had not had but which, in this somewhat chaotic house, she had to admit was a daily reality.
“Miss Prim, do you think anyone like Mr. Darcy exists?” asked Eksi, who, at the age of only seven and a half, wrote serial novels for her siblings.
Prudencia, who, a few weeks earlier, would have been surprised to learn that a child so young read such literature, put down the rolling pin and wiped her hands on her apron.
“I think Jane Austen deserves our admiration for having created the perfect man. But as you’re a very clever little girl, Eksi, you’ll know that the perfect person does not really exist, so . . . ”
“There’s no one in the world like Mr. Darcy,” declared the child cheerfully.
“I wouldn’t be so sure.” The sudden arrival of the Man in the Wing Chair gave Miss Prim a start, but she managed to hide it skillfully.
“So there is someone like that?” the little girl asked her uncle, who greeted her with an affectionate dab of flour on her nose.
“I have no idea, Eks, and I have to confess I’m rather bored of hearing about it. What I’d say is that I very much doubt that Darcy is the perfect man. And what’s more, I doubt his creator ever thought her character even remotely perfect.”
Miss Prim, who had begun furiously rolling the pastry, looked up, steeling herself to intervene.
“I’m afraid you’ve got it slightly wrong. You may not be able to see the character clearly because you’re the same sex as he is and, as everyone knows, this can make you blinkered, but any woman can see that Darcy is a man who always says exactly the right thing.”
“Which is quite natural,” he replied, “if we allow for the fact that he’s a fictional character and that there’s a hand behind him writing his dialogue.”
“Exactly. And that’s why I was reminding Eksi that he doesn’t exist, that no man like that could exist,” cried Miss Prim triumphantly, her nose pointed higher than ever in the air.
“My dear Prudencia, that’s cheating,” replied the Man in the Wing Chair, tasting a bite of the little girl’s pastry as she came to sit on his lap. “As I’ve said, I’m not discussing whether a man like Darcy exists, what I’m questioning is whether the character of Darcy represents the perfect man. The novel, as I’m sure you don’t need me to remind you, is called Pride and Prejudice because Mr. Darcy is proud and Elizabeth Bennet is prejudiced. Ergo, Miss Prim, Darcy is not perfect because pride is the greatest of all character flaws and a man who is proud is deeply imperfect.”
“As you yourself, no doubt, know from experience,” she blurted, and then clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified by what she’d said.
&n
bsp; A frosty silence filled the kitchen. Not even Eksi, who had been watching, fascinated, as the grown-ups crossed swords, dared break it.
“I’m . . . I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean that. I don’t know what possessed me,” the librarian said, her voice trembling.
The Man in the Wing Chair lifted his niece off his lap before addressing his employee.
“I may have deserved it, Miss Prim,” he said calmly. “And if so, I apologize.”
“Oh no, please! Don’t apologize, I beg you,” she said, burning with shame. “I didn’t mean to say it. I didn’t intend to, please believe me.”
He stared at her in silence.
“Actually, I believe you,” he said at last. “What you were probably intending to say was that I’m domineering, arrogant, and stubborn, wasn’t it? And you may be right, I wouldn’t deny it.”
Miss Prim put a hand on her forehead and swallowed before speaking.
“Please, I’m begging you to stop. What can I do to excuse myself?”
The Man in the Wing Chair made his way around the enormous wooden kitchen table and slowly approached his employee.
“Come now, Prudencia, I’m perfectly well aware that you didn’t mean to offend me, or not much, at least. You only had to see the look of horror on your face to know that. Why don’t we forget this unpleasant misunderstanding and sign a truce?” he said, holding out his hand.
Prudencia, head bowed, wiped her hand on her apron before extending it.
“That’s very generous of you. But will you really be able to forget this? You’d have every right in the world to dismiss me for such a remark.”
“I’d have every right, that’s for sure, but I’m not going to. You’re too good with books. And something tells me that this won’t be the last time I have to forgive you,” he said, taking advantage of the confusion of the moment to have a spoonful of the tart filling.
“Congratulations, this is absolutely delicious. Has it got poppy seeds in it?”
Miss Prim, distressed, opened her eyes wide.
Awakening of Miss Prim Page 4
