Chapter 6 #2
“Because you’ve never forced or pressured me into anything. You’ve never done anything to try to convince me. That’s probably why we’re friends; you’ve always respected my opinions.”
He leaned back in the battered metal summerhouse chair.
“That’s true. I’ve never forced or pressured you. But if I haven’t, it’s only because I thought it would be counterproductive. Don’t attribute virtues to me—since you consider it a virtue—that I don’t possess.”
“Whatever the reason,” said the librarian, “you haven’t gone to the ends of the earth to persuade me to join you in Tahiti.”
“You don’t think so?” he asked with a smile. “Perhaps one day you’ll realize that one can go to the ends of the earth without leaving one’s room, Prudencia.”
“Now you’re being cryptic again,” she said, then went on in a jesting tone: “Tell me something. If I’d wanted to go to Tahiti, if I’d never thought of going to St. Petersburg, would you have dared invite me on that journey with you?”
The Man in the Wing Chair bowed his head with a smile.
Then, looking into her eyes, he asked softly: “And what about you? Would you have come?”
She was about to reply when the gardener’s wrinkled, sullen face appeared at the door.
“It’s time, miss.”
Flushed, Miss Prim got to her feet. Rising at the same time, her employer held out his hand and said: “It’s very cold in St. Petersburg, Prudencia. I know, I’ve been there. But maybe some day . . . ” He broke off.
She crept to the door without a word. On the threshold, she turned and looked at the Man in the Wing Chair one last time.
“I don’t think so,” she whispered.
Miss Prim did not turn to take a last look at the house and garden.
In accordance with her wishes, which had been expressed as firmly as a military order, neither the children, nor the cook, nor the girls from the village, nor even the Man in the Wing Chair were at the door to see her off.
Miss Prim disliked farewells. Despite all the unfounded accusations of sentimentality, she was very conscious that she wasn’t comfortable with emotional scenes: she didn’t know how to handle them or how to strike the right tone.
This couldn’t be said of him, she reflected as she huddled in the back of the car and glanced out of the corner of her eye at the gardener’s solemn face.
The Man in the Wing Chair always, or almost always, knew how to behave; was capable at all times of finding the appropriate look, the happy or serious expression.
Miss Prim believed it came down to manners.
Not the kind that could be acquired from magazines, or books on etiquette, or even the kind displayed by people who boasted of having good manners.
What he had, and she appreciated it, was quite different, perhaps because it couldn’t be studied or emulated.
It couldn’t be taught or learned. It was simply breathed in.
It seemed so natural, so simple, so intrinsic to the person that it took you some time—a few weeks, even months—to realize how serenely harmonious such behavior was.
Magazine columns, books on etiquette, and correspondence courses couldn’t compete with a code instilled from the cradle, perfected over the centuries since the forgotten dawn of chivalry and courtly love.
As she mused, the car rounded a bend in the road and the huge, solid structure of the abbey of San Ireneo came into view.
The librarian contemplated its ancient stone walls, admired its symmetrical beauty, and then glanced at her watch.
She had plenty of time to get to the station.
She had allowed almost two hours for a journey that took half an hour by car; Miss Prim was a staunch advocate not only of punctuality but also, and above all, of precaution.
Out of respect for precaution she had decided to set out two hours early and by that glorious virtue, at that precise moment, without knowing why or even how, she felt a strong urge to meet the venerable monk who lived within those walls, the elderly man whom she had so assiduously avoided throughout that long cold winter in San Ireneo de Arnois.
“Could we stop at the monastery for a moment?” she asked the gardener.
“Of course, miss. Do you want to buy some of their honey?”
“No,” she replied, meeting his gaze in the rearview mirror. “Actually, I’d like to have a quick word with the padre.”
“With the padre?” asked the gardener, flabbergasted. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure,” she said, lifting her chin resolutely. “Could you help me?”
“Of course,” said the gardener, taking the turn that skirted the fields and led straight to the abbey.
After speaking to the monk at the gatehouse, Miss Prim entered the monastery and was ushered to the reception rooms, where she was told to wait. She stared at the bare walls until a young monk, wearing an apron over his habit, greeted her warmly and asked her to follow him to the vegetable garden.
“He’s getting some fresh air,” said the monk by way of explanation, apparently seeing nothing unusual in this on a morning when the temperature was several degrees below zero.
She was led down a corridor, through a hushed, austere cloister, and eventually to a corner of a small kitchen garden where a very elderly man was sitting on a bench.
“Miss Prim has come to see you,” said the young monk, before indicating to the librarian that she should approach.
The old man sat up, dismissing the younger man with a tender smile, and invited his visitor to sit beside him.
“Please, take a seat,” he said in a low tone. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“Have you?” she asked, worried he had mistaken her for someone else. “I’m not sure if you know who I am, Father. My name’s Prudencia Prim and I’ve been working as a librarian for the past few months at—”
“I know exactly who you are,” interrupted the monk gently. “I’ve been waiting for you. You’ve taken a long time.”
Miss Prim observed the old man’s wrinkled face and thin, frail body and wondered if he was of sound mind.
“They’ve often talked about you,” he said, and she thought she glimpsed delight in his eyes.
“They? Do you mean the man I work for?”
“I mean all the people who know you and are fond of you.”
She blushed with pleasure. It had never occurred to her that anyone might visit the ancient monk and mention her. She’d never dreamed that her presence could have penetrated those rigid walls, filtering into the Benedictine’s routine of silent contemplation.
Before she could say anything, the monk continued: “You’re going to Italy.”
Miss Prim replied that yes, indeed, she was.
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Yes.”
She frowned a little. She was reluctant to explain herself. The circumstances and reasoning behind her departure were private and she had no desire to share her private life with the old man. And more to the point, she thought suddenly, did she herself really know why she was leaving?
“I suppose I’m not entirely sure. If you asked people who know me you’d get different answers. Some would say I’m going because I’ve been disappointed in love, others because I need to shed my modern hardness, and yet others would claim I’m leaving to look for a husband.”
The monk smiled suddenly and his open, serene expression immediately set his guest at ease.
“And you,” he said, “why do you think you’re leaving?”
“I don’t know,” she replied simply.
“People who leave a place without reason are either running away, or seeking something. Which is it for you?”
She contemplated her answer for a long time. When she spoke, she saw that the old man had closed his eyes.
“Both, I think,” she said quietly, afraid that he might be asleep. “Perhaps that’s what I need to find out.”
He gradually opened his eyes and stared at the snow-covered vegetable garden.
“Can I ask you something?” he said, as if he hadn’t heard his visitor’s last words. “How do you close doors? Do you leave them ajar, pull them to gently, or slam them shut?”
Miss Prim’s eyes widened in surprise, but seconds later she recovered her composure. Now she was sure: the old man was senile.
“I think I leave them ajar, or close them gently. I definitely never slam them.”
“As novices, Carthusians are taught to turn around and close doors without pushing them or letting them swing shut. Do you know why?”
Miss Prim replied that she had no idea.
“So that they learn not to rush, to do one thing after another. So as to train them in restraint, patience, silence, and mindfulness in every gesture.” He paused.
“You must be wondering why I’m telling you this.
It’s because this is the spirit in which to set out on a journey—any journey.
If you travel in a hurry, without pausing or resting, you’ll return without having found what you’re looking for. ”
“The problem is,” she replied, having pondered his words, “I’m not sure what I’m looking for.”
He looked at her with compassion.
“Then perhaps the journey will enable you to find out.”
Miss Prim sighed. She’d been afraid that the old monk would try to discern the black holes in her life, that his eyes would bore into her and see her darkest secrets.
But he wasn’t the intimidating visionary with a foot in each world whom she’d so feared meeting.
He was just a kindly, tired little old man.
“I was told you could read minds. I was warned you’d tell me things that would surprise and upset me,” she blurted.
He shivered in his worn habit before responding very gently.
“Many years ago, when I was a young man, I had a teacher. He taught that a priest, any priest, must always be a gentleman.”
She blinked, confused.
“You came here worried that I would tell you something that would frighten, disturb, or trouble you. What kind of courtesy would I have shown if I’d behaved like that the first time you came to see me, without your even having asked for guidance?
Don’t be afraid of me, Miss Prim. I’ll be here.
I’ll be here waiting for you to find what you’re looking for and to return to tell me all about it.
And you can be sure that I’ll be with you, without leaving my cell, even as you search. ”
“You can go to the ends of the earth without leaving your room,” whispered the librarian.
“I’ve been told that you value delicacy and yearn for beauty,” the old man went on.
“So seek beauty, Miss Prim. Seek it in silence, in tranquillity; seek it in the middle of the night and at dawn. Pause to close doors while you seek it, and don’t be surprised if it doesn’t reside in museums or in palaces.
Don’t be surprised if, in the end, you find beauty to be not Something but Someone. ”
She looked into the venerable Benedictine’s eyes and wondered what he could have taught her if she’d agreed to come to him sooner, as her friend Horacio had suggested. Then the intense chill made her glance at her watch. It was getting late and she had a train to catch.
“I’m afraid I have to go,” she said. “Thank you for your thoughts, but it’s getting late and I have to get to the station.”
“Go,” he said, “don’t miss your train. That would be no way to start a journey as important as this.”
Miss Prim rose, taking her leave warmly and politely, and started walking back toward the abbey. But before she had quite crossed the kitchen garden, she stopped and retraced her steps to where the old man was still sitting on the bench.
“Father, I’d like to ask you something. These past few months I’ve heard people say many things about love and marriage. They’ve given me plenty of advice, and expounded many theories. I’d like to know what you think is the secret of a happy marriage.”
His eyes widened as if this was the first time anyone had ever asked him such a question. Smiling, he struggled to his feet and slowly approached.
“As you’ll appreciate, I don’t know much about it. No man could who has devoted himself to God from his earliest youth, as I have. No doubt the people who gave you advice have experience of marriage and therefore can say much more on the subject than I can. And yet . . . ”
“Yes?” she said, painfully aware of the fast-moving minute hand of her watch.
“And yet, I think I can say what constitutes the spiritual core of marriage, without which it can never be much more than a house of cards that stays up more or less by chance.”
“And that is?” she pressed, seized by a feverish desire not to leave doors ajar, but to slam them shut.
“And that is, my dear child, that marriage involves not two, but three.”
Astonished, Miss Prim was about to reply when she remembered the time. She held out her hand to the old monk, turned, and hurried away from the abbey of San Ireneo to catch her train.