The Awakening of Miss Prim

by Natalia Sanmartín Fenollera

but like many women of her kind, Miss Prim tended to scoff at what she secretly feared she would never have.

Marital union, she reflected as she swathed herself in a woolen blanket and stepped out onto the balcony to watch the sunset, was definitely for women of a different kind. Women with a certain flexibility of character, biddable women, women who were comfortable with such concepts as compromise or accommodation. Miss Prim was definitely not one of those. She couldn’t see herself compromising over anything. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to—she’d always valued the concept in the abstract—she just couldn’t imagine it in practice. She had a certain resistance, she’d realized in various situations throughout her life, to relinquishing, even in part, her view of things. While she found this resistance tiresome, in some ways she was also inwardly proud of it.

“People lie to children,” said Septimus solemnly. “Everyone does it, and no one thinks it’s wrong. When our mother died everyone told us she’d turned into an angel.” “But she didn’t,” murmured Miss Prim, moved. Septimus glanced at his sister, who shook her head firmly. “No one can turn into an angel, Miss Prim. People are people and angels are angels. They’re different things. Look at trees and deer. Do you think a tree could turn into a deer?” She shook her head. “Maybe it’s a way of explaining it, or maybe it’s a legend. And what’s wrong with legends? What about fairy tales? Don’t you like fairy tales?” she asked, trying to change the subject. “We like them,” said Eksi shyly. “We like them a lot.” “What’s your favorite?” “The story of the Redemption,” replied her older sister simply. Astounded, Miss Prim couldn’t think how to respond. The child’s strange statement showed that despite his efforts, despite his insistence and his arrogance, the Man in the Wing Chair hadn’t succeeded in instilling even the most basic rudiments of the faith that was so important to him. He hadn’t managed to explain the historical background of his religion. How could this be? All those morning walks to the abbey, all that reading of theology, all that ancient liturgy, all that playing at medieval jousting and what had he achieved? Four children convinced that the texts he so loved were just fairy tales. “But Tes, it’s not exactly a fairy tale. Fairy tales are stories full of fantasy and adven...

What I’m going to say now will undoubtedly shock you, but I will say it anyway: most women have no conversation. And the worst thing is, it’s not because they’re incapable of it, it’s because they don’t bother trying.”

if you were convinced that the world had forgotten how to think and teach, if you believed it had discarded the beauty of art and literature, if you thought it had crushed the power of the truth, would you let that world educate your children?”

“My dear Prudencia, there are times in life when we’re all faced with a dilemma we’d rather not have to deal with. For each person the dilemma might come in a different guise, but in essence it’s always the same. There’s a sacrifice to be made, and you have to choose the victim: yourself or those around you.”

There’s no human or spiritual discipline to which she’ll subject her will. She just has her own opinions, and they’re the only tribunal that’s permitted to judge her when she makes a mistake. Can you imagine what you would be like if you didn’t have anyone close who was capable of influencing you? Anyone to point out your flaws, to confront you when you went too far, to correct you when you did something wrong?”

She too believed in the value of the little things. Her first coffee in the morning drunk from her Limoges porcelain cup. Sunlight filtering through the shutters of her room, casting shadows on the floor. Dozing off over a book on a summer’s afternoon. The look in the children’s eyes when they told you about some fact they’d just learned. It was from the little things that the big ones were made, it definitely was.

“It’s like a detective novel, Prudencia. Just like one,” the florist was saying. “What do you mean?” “Love, I mean love. It already exists, you can be sure. You just have to find out where, follow the trail, investigate. Exactly like a detective.”

“It’s not the husband who has to be the source of harmony. It’s not in him that you have to seek harmony. No, it’s in the marriage, in the combination of the two of you, that you’ve got to look for it.”

“It’s strange that the people who spit the most caustic words over marriage are precisely the ones who know least about it.

should. The Kalmyk steppe, near Stalingrad, is a bleak place, arid and featureless. If you go there in winter, it’s devastating to the soul. But try going in spring and see what you find.” Prudencia raised her eyebrows expectantly. “Tulips,” whispered Emma Giovanacci. “Tulips?” “Tulips. Fresh, delicate, wild tulips. Tulips that come up every year and cover the steppe, without anyone planting them. And that’s exactly what it’s about, Prudencia. Routine is like the steppe: it’s not a monster, it’s nourishment. If you can get something to grow there you can be sure that it will be real and strong.

“A man who’s not completely honest can keep within the bounds of decency if he’s lucky enough to be unattractive and of slender means. But add money and good looks, and the road to ruin is clearly signposted.”

We modern primitives also have our limitations. We no longer find the time to sit around a table and chat about the human and the divine. And not only do we not find the time, we don’t even know how to anymore.”

The editor of the San Ireneo Gazette had the indefinable charm of someone who said little but thought much.

“You can fool children for a time, but we adults mostly don’t realize when the period of grace has expired.”

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.”

I detested all my husbands intensely and it didn’t stop me loving all three very much.”

😂😂😂

“This advice won’t be any use to you now, Septimus, but when you grow up and see a woman crying, remember that the best thing you can do is absolutely nothing.” “That’s really easy.” She burst out laughing and started to dry her tears. “Easy? Wait till you’re older. There’s nothing harder.”

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.

“You say you’re looking for beauty, but this isn’t the way to achieve it, my dear friend. You won’t find it while you look to yourself, as if everything revolved around you. Don’t you see? It’s exactly the other way around, precisely the other way around. You mustn’t be careful, you must get hurt. What I’m trying to explain, child, is that unless you allow the beauty you seek to hurt you, to break you and knock you down, you’ll never find it.”