The Awakening of Miss Prim

by Natalia Sanmartín Fenollera

the indefinable charm of someone who said little but thought much. Miss Prim had always felt that such people were at a marked advantage. They never said anything tactless, never spouted nonsense, never had cause to regret their words or justify themselves.

“All the men I know are critical of Mr. Darcy. They find him annoying and arrogant.” “Why?” asked Miss Prim, intrigued. “I suppose it’s because they realize they seem rather lackluster by comparison.”

When they grow up and life treats them badly—as it certainly will—they’ll always be able to look back and take refuge for a few hours in that familiar sentimental story.

“They’ll get back from work, stressed by the traffic, aching with tension and problems and there, in their minds, they’ll be able to open a door into the parlor of Orchard House with its rather cloying, puritanical transcendentalism, its piano, cheerful fire, and blessed Christmas tree.”

“Sensitivity is a gift, Prudencia, I’m perfectly well aware of that. But it’s not a suitable tool for guiding thought, when it can be disastrous. It’s the same with ears and food. A wonderful organ, the ear. A miracle of design, intended down to its last cell to facilitate hearing, but try using it to eat with and see how you get on.”

They’re being brought up with good books so that later they can absorb great books.

The ideal—and I’m sure you agree—is to possess a cool head and a tender heart.”

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.”

“My dear Miss Prim, if you reflected a little more deeply you’d realize that you can only admire that which you do not possess. You do not admire in another a quality you have yourself, you admire what you don’t have and which you see shining in another in all its splendor. Do you follow me?”

“Sociologists aren’t interested in human nature. They just study human behavior in social groups, which is more limited and much less interesting.”

Faith isn’t theoretical, Prudencia. Conversion is about as theoretical as a shot to the head.”

You simply have well-meaning opinions. And people of an optimistic outlook, as you seem to be, not only don’t improve things but contribute to their decline. They convey the false impression that everything is going well when in fact—don’t deceive yourself—it is going hopelessly badly.

the young should be as naive as human nature permits,

fundamentally, nothing changes, you know. The huge old mistakes emerge time and again from the depths, like cunning monsters stalking prey. If you could sit at the window and watch human history unfold, do you know what you’d see?” A little apprehensively, Miss Prim said she did not. “I’ll tell you. You’d see an immense chain of mistakes repeated over the centuries, that’s what. You’d watch them, arrayed in different garb, hidden behind various masks, concealed beneath a multitude of disguises, but they’d remain the same. No, it’s not easy to become aware of it, of course not. You have to stay alert and keep your eyes open to detect those evil old threats, recurring endlessly.

What is a gatekeeper to do if not to warn of what she’s seen? Gatekeepers aren’t optimistic or pessimistic, Prudencia. They’re either awake or asleep.”

“Tradition is ageless, child. It’s modernity that ages.

marriage involves not two, but three.”

Miss Prim had always had sufficient respect for poetry not to write any herself.

It was not her enjoying the poems, it was the poems enjoying themselves in her.

She’d learned how to close doors. She’d learned to open them gently and close them carefully. And when you learned to close doors, she reflected as she watched the pair of lovers, in a way you learned to open and close everything else correctly. Time seemed to stretch out indefinitely when you did things properly. It froze, halted, stopped suddenly, like a clock that has wound down. Then the small things, the necessary things, even the ordinary, everyday things, especially those one performed with one’s hands—how mysterious that man could do such beautiful things with his hands—were revealed as works of art.

She’d given up trying to achieve perfect virtue on her own. She’d realized how exhausting, how inhuman and wrong it was to live enslaved by this goal. Now that she was aware of her overwhelming imperfection, her fragility and contingency, she no longer bore the burden of the hammer and the chisel on her back. It wasn’t that she’d accepted imperfection, or grown accustomed to it, but she no longer carried the load alone, she no longer shouldered the yoke with only her own strength, she was no longer shocked when she struck a bad patch. She also knew that none of this would last, that after the joy there would be dips, caverns, tunnels, and ravines. But for now, everything was a gift that she was learning to accept.