Awakening of Miss Prim Read online

  Praise for Natalia Sanmartin Fenollera’s International Bestseller The Awakening of Miss Prim

  “The Awakening of Miss Prim is a beautifully written novel. Its characters are brought to life so eloquently, and the blossoming of Miss Prim is so complete: she learns the value in life and love that has been lost in our modern-day hustle. An exquisite book and a joy to read.”

  —Deborah Rodriguez, New York Times bestselling author of The Little Coffee Shop of Kabul

  “A heart-warming and sweet story of small-town life and self-discovery.”

  —Vanessa Greene, author of The Vintage Teacup Club

  “Readers who loved Joanne Harris’s Chocolat, Jessica Brockmole’s Letters from Skye or Gabrielle Zevin’s The Collected Works of AJ Fikry will be charmed by the blossoming of Miss Prim. Already a bestseller in Europe, this charming and intelligent debut novel is certain to be a hit with book groups. Highly recommended.”

  —US Library Journal

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  Contents

  Epigraph

  The Arrival

  I. The Man in the Wing Chair

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  II. It’s Winter on the Russian Steppe

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  III. Unraveling Skeins

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Nursia

  About Natalia Sanmartin Fenollera

  To my parents, Miguel and Cuca, with love, gratitude, and admiration

  They think that they regret the past, when they are but longing after the future.

  —John Henry Newman

  The Arrival

  Everyone in San Ireneo de Arnois remarked on Miss Prim’s arrival. On the afternoon they saw her walking through the village she was just another job applicant on her way to an interview, but the inhabitants knew the place well enough to realize that a vacancy there was a rare and precious thing. Many still remembered what had happened a few years earlier when they were looking for a new primary school teacher: eight applicants had showed up, but only three had been given the opportunity to set out their talents. This did not reveal a lack of interest in education—educational standards in San Ireneo de Arnois were excellent—but rather the inhabitants’ conviction that greater choice did not increase the likelihood of getting it right. The proprietor of the stationer’s, a woman quite capable of devoting an entire afternoon to decorating a single sheet of paper, described the idea of spending longer than a morning selecting a teacher as extravagant. Everyone agreed. In that community, it was the families themselves, each according to their background, ambition, and means, who were in charge of their children’s intellectual development. School was considered supplementary—undesirable but necessary—though certainly many households relied on it. Many, but by no means all. So why devote so much time to it?

  To visitors, San Ireneo de Arnois looked like a place that was firmly rooted in the past. Old stone houses with gardens full of roses stood proudly along a handful of streets that led to a bustling square full of small shops and businesses, buying and selling at the steady pace of a healthy heart. The outskirts of the village were dotted with tiny farms and workshops that supplied the local shops. It was a small community comprising an industrious group of farmers, craftsmen, shopkeepers, and professionals, a retiring, select circle of academics and the sober brotherhood of monks who lived at the abbey of San Ireneo. Their interlocking lives formed an entire world. They were the cogs of a human engine that was proud of being self-sufficient through trade and the small-scale production of goods and services, and of its neighborly courtesy. Those who said that it seemed to belong in the past were probably right. Yet only a few years earlier, there would have been no sign of the thriving, cheerful market that now greeted visitors.

  What had happened between then and now? Had Miss Prim, going to her interview, asked the proprietor of the stationer’s, the latter would have replied that this mysterious prosperity was the result of a young man’s tenacity and an old monk’s wisdom. But as Miss Prim, hurrying to the house, did not notice the pretty shop, its owner was unable to reveal with pride that San Ireneo de Arnois was, in fact, a flourishing colony of exiles from the modern world seeking a simple, rural life.

  PART I

  The Man in the Wing Chair

  1

  At exactly the moment young Septimus was stretching awake after his nap, sliding his eleven-year-old feet into slippers made for those of a fourteen-year-old and crossing to his bedroom window, Miss Prim was passing through the rusty garden gate. The boy watched her with interest. At first glance, she didn’t appear nervous or afraid in the least. Nor did she have the threatening air of the previous incumbent, who always looked as if he knew exactly what kind of book anyone daring to ask for a book was going to ask for.

  “Perhaps we’ll like her,” Septimus said to himself, rubbing his eyes with the heels of both hands. Then, moving away from the window, he quickly buttoned his jacket and went downstairs to open the door.

  Miss Prim, just then making her way calmly along the path between banks of blue hydrangeas, had begun her day convinced it was the one she’d been waiting for all her life. Over the years she’d dreamed about an opportunity such as this. She’d pictured it, she’d imagined it, she’d pondered every detail. And yet, that morning, as she came through the garden, Prudencia Prim had to acknowledge that she felt not the slightest quickening of the heart, nor even the faintest tremor of excitement that would indicate that the great day had arrived.

  They would observe her with curiosity, she knew. People tended to look at her like that, she was well aware of it. Just as she knew that she was very different from the people who examined her in this hostile fashion. Few could admit to being the victim of a fatal historical error, she told herself proudly. Few people lived, as she did, with the constant feeling of having been born at the wrong time and in the wrong place. And fewer still realized, as she did, that all that was worth admiring, all that was beautiful and sublime, seemed to be vanishing with hardly a trace. The world, lamented Prudencia Prim, had lost its taste for beauty, harmony, and balance. And few could see this truth; just as few could feel within themselves the resolve to make a stand.

  It was this steely determination that had prompted Miss Prim, three days before she walked down the path lined with hydrangeas, to reply to a small ad printed in the newspaper.

  Wanted: a feminine spirit quite undaunted by the world to work as a librarian for a gentleman and his books. Able to live with dogs and children. Preferably without work experience. Graduates and postgraduates need not apply.

  Miss Prim only partly fitted this description. She was quite undaunted by the world, that was clear. As was her undoubted ability to work as a librarian for a gentleman and his books. But she had no experience of dealing with children or dogs, much less living with them. If she was honest, though, what most concerned her was the problem posed by “graduates and postgraduates need not apply.”

  Miss Prim considered herself a highly quali
fied woman. With degrees in international relations, political science, and anthropology, she had a PhD in sociology and was an expert on library science and medieval Russian art. People who knew her looked curiously at this extraordinary CV, especially as its holder was a mere administrative assistant with no apparent ambitions. They didn’t understand, she said to herself peevishly; they didn’t understand the concept of excellence. How could they, in a world where things no longer meant what they were supposed to mean?

  “Are you his new librarian?”

  Startled, the applicant looked down. There, on the porch of what appeared to be the main entrance to the house, she met the gaze of a little boy with blond hair and a scowl.

  “Are you or aren’t you?” pressed the child.

  “I think it’s too soon to say,” she replied. “I’m here because of the advertisement your father placed in the paper.”

  “He’s not a father,” the boy said simply, then turned and ran back inside.

  Disconcerted, Miss Prim stared at the doorway. She was absolutely sure that there had been specific mention in the advert of a gentleman with children. Naturally, it wasn’t necessary for a gentleman to have children: in her life she’d known a few without them. But when a paragraph contained both the words gentleman and children, what else was one to think?

  Just then she raised her eyes and took in the house for the first time. She’d been so absorbed in her thoughts as she came through the garden that she hadn’t paid it any attention. It was an old building of faded red stone, with a great many windows and French doors leading onto the garden. A solid, shabby edifice, its cracked and creviced walls were adorned with climbing roses that seemed never to have encountered a gardener. The front porch, supported by four columns and hung with a huge wisteria, looked bleak and imposing.

  “It must be freezing in winter,” she murmured.

  She glanced at her watch; it was almost midafternoon. All the windows were wide open, their curtains fluttering capriciously in the fresh September breeze, as white and light as sails. It looks just like a ship, she thought, an old ship run aground. And coming around the porch, she went up to the nearest French door, hoping to find a host who had, at least, reached adulthood.

  Looking in, Miss Prim saw a large, untidy room, full of books and children. There were many more books than children, but somehow the way they were distributed made it look as if there were almost as many children as books. The applicant counted thirty arms, thirty legs, and fifteen heads. Their owners were dotted about on the rug, lying on old sofas, curled up in dilapidated leather armchairs. She also noticed two gigantic dogs lying on either side of a wingchair that faced the fireplace, its back to the window. The boy who had spoken to her on the porch was there on the rug, bowed conscientiously over a notebook. The others raised their heads from time to time to answer a speaker whose voice seemed to spring straight from the wing chair.

  “Let’s begin,” said the man in the wing chair.

  “Can we ask for clues?” said one of the children.

  Instead of replying, the man’s voice recited:

  Ultima Cumaei venit iam carminis aetas;

  magnus ab integro saeclorum nascitur ordo:

  iam redit et Virgo, redeunt Saturnia regna;

  iam nova progenies caelo demittitur alto.

  “Well?” he said when he’d finished.

  The children remained silent.

  “Could it be Horace?” asked one of them timidly.

  “It could be,” replied the man, “but it isn’t. Come on, try again. Anyone dare translate it?”

  The applicant, observing the scene from behind the heavy curtains that hung on either side of a pair of lace panels, thought the question far too difficult. The children were too young to recognize a work from a single quotation, especially when the quotation was in Latin. Despite having read Virgil with pleasure, Miss Prim did not approve of the game; she didn’t approve at all.

  “I’ll give you some help,” the voice continued from within the wing chair. “These lines were dedicated to a Roman politician from the early years of the Empire. A politician who became friends with some of the great poets we’ve studied, such as Horace. One of those friends dedicated the lines to him for having mediated in the Treaty of Brundisium which, as you know, or should know, put an end to the conflict between Antony and Octavian.”

  The man fell silent and stared at the children (or so Miss Prim imagined, from her hiding place) with a look of mute interrogation that received no response. Only one of the dogs, as if wanting to show its interest in the historical event, got up slowly and lazily, lumbered nearer to the fireplace and lay down once again on the rug.

  “We studied all this, absolutely all of it, last spring,” complained the man.

  The children, still looking down, chewed their pens thoughtfully, swung their feet nonchalantly, rested their cheeks on their hands.

  “Pack of ignorant brutes,” insisted the voice irritably. “What on earth’s the matter with you today?”

  Miss Prim felt a wave of heat rise to her face. She had no experience whatsoever with children, this was true, but she was a mistress of the art of delicacy. Miss Prim firmly believed that delicacy was the force that drove the universe. Where it was lacking, she knew, the world became gloomy and dark. Indignant at the scene and growing a little stiff, she tried to shift quietly in her hiding place, but a sudden growl from one of the dogs made her stop.

  “All right,” the man’s voice softened. “Let’s try again with something a bit easier.”

  “By the same author?” asked a little girl.

  “By exactly the same author. Ready? I’m only going to recite half a line.”

  . . . facilis descensus Averno . . .

  A sudden forest of raised hands and noisy cries of triumph showed that this time the pupils knew the answer.

  “Virgil!” they shouted in a shrill chorus. “It’s the Aeneid!”

  “That’s right, that’s right,” laughed the man, pleased. “And what I recited before was from the Eclogues, Eclogue IV. Therefore, the Roman statesman who was a friend of Virgil and Horace is . . . ”

  Before any of the children could answer, Miss Prim’s clear, melodious voice came from behind the curtains, filling the room.

  “Asinius Pollio, of course.”

  Fifteen childish heads turned in unison toward the window. Surprised by her boldness, the applicant instinctively retreated. Only a sense of her own dignity and the importance of the reason for her presence stopped her from running away.

  “I apologize deeply for making such an entrance,” she said, advancing slowly to the center of the room. “I know I should have announced myself, but the boy who answered the front door left me alone on the porch. So I thought I’d look in here, and that’s when I heard you talking about Virgil and Pollio. I really am terribly sorry, sir.”

  “Are you here about the post of librarian?”

  The man spoke gently, and seemed quite unconcerned by the fact that a stranger had just burst into his sitting room. A gentleman, thought Miss Prim admiringly. A true gentleman. Maybe she’d judged him too hastily; and she’d undoubtedly been rash.

  “Yes, sir. I rang this morning. I came about your advertisement.”

  The man in the wing chair stared at her for a few seconds, long enough to realize that the woman standing before him was too young for the job.

  “Have you brought your CV, Miss . . . ?”

  “Prim. Miss Prudencia Prim,” she replied, adding apologetically: “It’s an unusual name, I know.”

  “I’d say it has character. But if you wouldn’t mind, before we go any further I’d like to see your CV. Have you brought it with you?”

  “The advert stated that the applicant shouldn’t have any qualifications, so I didn’t think it would be needed.”

  “Then I take it you don’t have any higher qualifications. I mean, other than a basic knowledge of librarianship, is that right?”

  Miss Prim remain
ed silent. For some reason she couldn’t fathom, the conversation wasn’t taking the course she’d expected.

  “Actually, I do have some qualifications,” she said eventually. “A few . . . quite a few.”

  “Quite a few?” The tone of the man in the wing chair hardened slightly. “Miss Prim, I thought the advert was clear.”

  “Yes, it was,” she said quickly, “of course it was. But please, let me explain. I’m not a conventional person from an academic point of view. I’ve never made use of my qualifications in my career. I don’t use them, I never mention them, and,” she paused for breath, “you can rest assured that they will not interfere with my work in any way.”

  As she finished, the librarian noticed that the children and dogs had been staring at her in silence for some time. Then she recalled what the boy on the porch had said about the man she was now speaking to. Could it really be that of this tribe of children not one of them was his?

  “Tell me,” he said, “what qualifications are we talking about? And how many?”

  The applicant swallowed, wondering how best to deal with this tricky question.

  “If you’d be so kind as to give me a sheet of paper, sir, I could draw you a quick diagram.”

  “A quick diagram?” exclaimed the man in astonishment. “Are you insane? Why would a person whose qualifications need a diagram apply for a post that specifically rules out qualifications?”

  Miss Prim hesitated for a moment before answering. She wanted to tell the truth, of course, she had to tell the truth, she desperately wanted to; but she knew that if she did, she wouldn’t get the job. She couldn’t say that she’d had a hunch as she read the advert. She couldn’t explain that her heart had beaten faster, her eyes had clouded over, that in the ad’s few lines she’d glimpsed a new dawn. Lying, however, was out of the question. Even if she’d wanted to—and she definitely did not—there was the regrettable matter of the reddening of her nose. Miss Prim’s nose was endowed with great moral sensitivity. It didn’t redden when she was complimented, or when she was shouted at; she had never flinched at a rude remark, or even an insult. But at the prospect of a lie, then there was nothing to be done. An involuntary inaccuracy, a single exaggeration, an innocent deception and her nose lit up like a magnificent beacon.