Chapter 4 #2
“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 Bronte 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.
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.
“How did you know?”
Instead of replying, the Man in the Wing Chair grabbed an apple and, with a wink at his niece, headed toward the door.
“You should be pleased I’ve discovered your secret ingredient,” he said before leaving. “Now we can truly say we’re quits.”
Once the door had closed behind him, the librarian sighed deeply. She glanced out of the window before rubbing her hands in flour and getting back to shaping her pastry.
“Miss Prim,” said Eksi from across the table, “don’t you think our uncle always says exactly the right thing?”
“Possibly, dear, possibly,” murmured Miss Prim, still very worked up. Then she went to the oven, opened it carefully and, with some impetus and one might even say a touch of euphoria, placed her wonderful tart inside.