Chapter 5 #2
“The motion that the chair proposes to the Feminist League,” continued Herminia Treaumont, “is as follows. As you know, Amelia has exquisite taste. Give her a remnant of fabric, a teapot, half a dozen roses, and a chipped mirror and she can create a work of art. So we thought we could organize a collection to help her start a small interior-design business. We don’t have anything like that here in San Ireneo, and I think we could all benefit from it.
It would liberate her from the restrictions endured by all employees.
I’m afraid her husband-to-be is not showing much of a talent for gardening.
They won’t be able to live off his salary alone, not for the time being. ”
“But who’ll help the judge with his memoirs?” objected one of the women anxiously.
“His memoirs? His memoirs? To hell with his memoirs!” replied the speaker with unexpected vehemence, seconded immediately by a chorus of applause.
Once the votes had been cast, unanimously supporting the motion that a collection be started, the meeting continued uneventfully.
The next item on the agenda, proposed by Hortensia Oeillet, related to the feasibility of setting up a theater company to complement the village children’s literary education.
All those present were in agreement. You couldn’t study Shakespeare, Racine, or Molière unless you left behind the pages of the book, explained the chairwoman firmly.
Nor could you understand Aeschylus or Sophocles from the confines of a school desk.
(At this, Miss Prim, absolutely delighted, could not refrain from murmuring with feeling: Who knows what is considered righteous below?
) It was unimaginable that someone could come to love Corneille or Schiller, continued Hortensia energetically, without having had the opportunity to witness the violent beauty and heroism of their characters onstage.
“Bravo! Bravo!” cried the librarian, on her feet amid the thunder of applause, foot stamping and spoon rattling.
A few minutes later, as Miss Prim was drinking her fourth cup of chocolate, a plump, jolly woman, whom her neighbor identified as Emma Giovanacci, stood up to present the final item on the agenda.
“The third and final matter to be addressed concerns the advisability of finding a husband for the new resident in San Ireneo, young Miss Prim.”
She gave a violent start. Pale and trembling, she stood up, placed her cup on the table, and sought the chairwoman’s eye.
“I’m sorry, Hortensia,” she said icily. “I don’t understand.”
A weighty silence filled the room.
“My dear Emma, what were you thinking?” stammered the chairwoman, looking at the woman who had read out the last item on the agenda. “Are you unaware that Miss Prim is here, here, with us today?”
Horrified, Emma Giovanacci stared at the paper in her hands.
“But it’s on the agenda!” she wailed after being informed that the woman referred to was the attractive young lady who had been sitting by the fireplace all evening and was now frantically searching for her handbag.
When she had found what she was looking for, the librarian hurried to the door, intent on leaving without waiting to be seen out by the rosy-faced maid in the white cap who, like many of the other women of the village, had taken a seat and joined the meeting.
Emma’s apologies and Hortensia’s distressed pleas were to no avail.
Nor were the soothing words of Clarissa Waste, who explained to Miss Prim that finding husbands for people was quite customary for the feminist ladies of San Ireneo.
“You call yourselves feminists?” Prudencia exclaimed indignantly, turning on them. “Surely you don’t believe that a woman should still depend on a man?”
“But, my dear, look at yourself for a moment.” Herminia Treaumont’s clear, mild voice froze Miss Prim to the spot.
“You live in a man’s house, you work all day obeying a man’s orders, and you receive a salary from that same man, who pays all his bills punctually on the first of every month.
Did you really imagine that you’d freed yourself from dependence on a male? ”
“It’s not the same, and you know it,” replied the librarian in a hoarse undertone.
“Of course it’s not the same. Most of the married women in this village don’t even remotely depend on their husbands the way you depend on your boss.
As owners of their own businesses, some are the main breadwinners in their households, and many others save a great deal of money by educating their children themselves and turning into disposable income sums that the rest of the world squanders on mediocre schools.
None of them has to ask permission to carry out personal business, as I hazard you have to at work.
None of us has to keep our opinions to ourselves, as I’m sure you frequently have to in conversations with your employer. ”
Miss Prim opened her mouth to object, but something in the other woman’s expression caused her to close it again.
“It wouldn’t occur to any of them,” continued Herminia, “to present a medical certificate when they’re ill, or expect to endure condescension when they announce something as natural as a pregnancy. Do you see that quotation in the little frame above the fireplace?”
Prudencia reluctantly turned her gaze toward the wall.
“It was written many years ago by the man to whom I owe most thanks in my life, after my academic mentor and my father. And unfortunately I think it’s the most profound truth ever spoken on the matter. Read it. Read it closely, and tell me it’s not true.”
In silence, Miss Prim read.
Ten thousand women marched through the streets of London saying: “We will not be dictated to,” and then went off to become stenographers.I
“Believe me, ladies, if I really wanted a husband I would look for a husband myself,” she said before she left the room, her nose pointing higher in the air than ever, and slammed the door behind her.
“Come now, Prudencia, don’t upset yourself, it really isn’t worth it.”
Horacio Delàs poured Miss Prim a steaming cup of lime-blossom tea, which she gently refused.
“You can’t imagine how unpleasant it was for me,” she murmured, “how embarrassed I felt.”
Following her hasty departure from the Feminist League, the librarian had gone to the house of the only other man she knew in the village apart from her employer.
“This is a strange place, full of very odd people,” she said with a sigh.
“I hope you don’t think of me in that way. Remember, I’m one of them,” replied her host, offering her a glass of brandy. This she accepted gratefully.
Miss Prim assured him that she didn’t mean to include him.
Since her arrival in San Ireneo she had tried to fit in, but her efforts had been in vain.
There were too many unanswered questions, and the first of these was about her employer: Who was he?
What did he do for a living? Why did he go to the abbey first thing every morning?
Why did he spend whole days immersed in old books, forgetting mealtimes?
Was he some kind of urban hermit? Miss Prim had heard of such people.
Madmen devoted to a life of prayer, mystics who lived in the city in a state of constant worship just like the original hermits in the desert, or the mysterious Russian starets.
Perhaps the Man in the Wing Chair was an urban hermit.
“For the record, I don’t have anything against hermits, much less urban ones. I’ve always respected all forms of spirituality,” she pointed out.
“Of course you have, my dear. But believe me, he is not a hermit.”
“What is he, then? Because you can’t deny that his religious zeal goes beyond the norm.”
“Well beyond. I can’t believe you’re so unobservant. Haven’t you realized that you’re working for a convert?”
“A convert?”
“I was sure you knew.”
“Absolutely not. A convert from what?”
“From skepticism, of course. What else? You have to agree that of all dragons, it’s the only one worth fleeing.”
Perplexed, the librarian wondered if the brandy wasn’t going straight to her head.
“You must at least have observed that he’s not an ordinary man,” insisted her host.
Miss Prim agreed that it wouldn’t be easy to consider the Man in the Wing Chair an ordinary man.
“What does he do with his time?” she asked before raising her glass to her lips again.
“Study.”
“No one can make a living from studying.”
“He’s also a teacher.”
“To fifteen children whom he doesn’t even charge for their tea.”
“True, but that’s only one of his occupations.
If you want to know what his main source of income is, I can tell you that he’s very highly regarded as an expert in dead languages; he contributes to a great many publications, and once or twice a year he gives series of lectures at various universities.
As well as all that, which brings more prestige than money, he manages a large part of his family’s assets.
Actually, he doesn’t need much to live on.
He’s a frugal man, as you’ve no doubt noticed. ”
“Series of lectures? I didn’t know that Latin and Greek were such a big deal,” said Miss Prim with a giggle.
Horacio gave her a look of surprise and consternation.
“Latin and Greek? My dear Prudencia, once again you leave me speechless. Your Man in the Wing Chair is fluent in around twenty languages, half of them dead. And when I say dead, I don’t mean just Aramaic and Sanskrit.
I’m talking about Ugaritic, Syrio-Chaldean, Carthaginian Punic, and old Coptic dialects such as Sahidic and Fayyumic.
As I said, you’re in the employ of a man who’s far from ordinary.
You see him go to the abbey every morning because he’s devoted to the ancient Roman liturgy.
And he lives isolated in this small place occupying himself with parochial concerns because he was inspired by the old man in the abbey—who now almost never ventures outside—and is in fact the founder of this colony of sorts. ”