“When Amelia arrived here, as I’m sure many of you remember, she was a young lady with a high opinion of both herself and her love of literature. That all changed when, within a few months of coming to live in the village, she discovered that what theworldcalled literature, San Ireneo considered a waste of time. I still recall the morning when she entered my office, eyes shining with emotion and an old anthology of John Donne’s poetry in her hand. This was where she discovered that intelligence, this wonderful gift, grows in silence, not in noise. It was here too that she learned that a human mind, a truly human mind, is nurtured over time, with hard work and discipline.”
More applause, noisy and animated, reverberated around the room.
“Isn’t she wonderful?” whispered the woman next to Miss Prim. “I never miss her column on a Tuesday. Be sure to read it, you’ll love it.”
“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.”
