Chapter 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 to 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.