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 calledPride and Prejudicebecause 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.
5
The headquarters of the San Ireneo Feminist League was approached along a narrow path lined with tuffets of chrysanthemums. At five o’clock precisely on Tuesday afternoon—the date and time stated on the invitation—the graceful figure of Miss Prim could be seen ringing at the doorbell, ready to encounter at last the hub of female power in the village. To her surprise she was greeted by a tiny, rosy-cheeked maid in a white cap and starched apron. Miss Prim had not expected such formality at a meeting of feminists. True, she had no experience in these matters, but the idea of a maid at this sort of gathering seemed incongruous. However, her feeling for old-fashioned beauty allowed her to appreciate the smile of welcome, the courtesy with which she was ushered upstairs, and the way she found herself—as if by magic—in the middle of the living room.
