“Prudencia,” said the Man in the Wing Chair, “I have some business to do in the village and I’m afraid it’s the staff’s day off. Would you mind keeping an eye on the children? They’re playing in the garden. I’m sorry to ask, but I’ve no choice.”
Conscious that her sunset had just been ruined, the librarian assured him pleasantly that she would look after the children. They weren’t normal children, she thought as she made her way downstairs. They didn’t read normal books, or play normal games, or even say normal things. It wasn’t that they were unpleasant, or rude—actually, she had to admit that they were delightful—but they were quite unlike any children she’d encountered at friends’ houses, in the street, or in restaurants. When she spoke to them, she often had the uncomfortable sensation that she was being interrogated. It was the children who steered the conversation. It was they too who peppered the chats with strange items of information that the librarian considered quite unsuitable for children of their age.
“Today we learned about Russian archimandrites andstarets, Miss Prim. Do you know the story of Starets Ambrose and the turkeys?” Teseris had asked one morning in the kitchen as the librarian was making herself some cheese on toast behind the cook’s back.
Miss Prim solemnly confessed that she knew a little about the elders of the Russian Orthodox church, but that she had never heard of Starets Ambrose or any turkeys. No sooner had the librarian made this sincere admission of ignorance than the child launched into a disquisition on Starets Ambrose and the monastery of Optina, the similarities between him and Starets Zosima and the story of the turkeys that refused to eat.
“One day, a peasant woman who tended turkeys for a landowner went to see thestarets,” explained the little girl. “She was very sad because the turkeys were dying and the landowner was going to evict her. When the pilgrims at the monastery heard her crying, they laughed and told her not to bother the monk with such trivial nonsense. But Starets Ambrose listened to her very carefully and when she’d finished, he asked what she fed the turkeys. He advised her to change their feed and gave her his blessing. Once the woman had left, they asked the elder why he’d wasted his time over some turkeys. Do you know what he said?”
“I have no idea,” replied Miss Prim, bewildered.
“He said they were all blind if they couldn’t see that those poor turkeys were the woman’s whole life. Starets Ambrose didn’t divide problems into big and small like everyone else does. He always said that angels are in the simple things; you never find angels where things are complicated. He believed that the small things are important.”
They definitely were not normal children, she sighed as she trotted down to the garden. She made her way along the path lined with now leafless hydrangeas and turned right into a bower formed by the branches of six large plane trees that were also starting to shed their leaves. This was where, on two aged wrought-iron benches, the children of the house had their headquarters. When they saw Miss Prim enter their sanctuary, their tousled heads sprang apart.
“Your uncle asked me not to let you out of my sight, so I came to see what you were up to,” she said truthfully.
“We weren’t doing anything, just reading a book from when we were small,” said Septimus.
“And what book is that?” she asked, peering discreetly at the small yellow volume the boy was holding.
“It’s the story of a toad who loves driving,” he said with the superior air of someone who believes he has a secret that can’t be guessed.
Miss Prim smiled benevolently.
“A toad who’s friends with a mole, a rat, and a badger?”
Taken aback, the children nodded.
“You know it? It’s a pretty old book. It was already around when our grandmother was small. It’s fairly ancient,” said Septimus with absolute seriousness.
The librarian suppressed another smile.
“I’ve read it and studied it.”
“Studied it? But it’s just a children’s story!” cried Teseris, eyes wide.
Miss Prim crossed her arms and gazed over the children’s heads at the horizon.
“It’s more than a children’s book, it’s literature. And literature is to be studied, analyzed. One traces its influences and researches what it’s intending to convey.”
The children stared at her while the mild evening light, filtering through the yellowing leaves of the trees, threw flickering shadows on their faces.
“Our uncle says if you do that to books it spoils them,” declared Septimus eventually. “Hehatesall that text analysis stuff. He’s never madeusdo it.”
A cold wave of indignation washed over her.
“Oh really?” she muttered sourly. “That’s what he says, is it? In that case, I can’t believe he got you to recognize Virgil from a single line. How can you do that without studying or analyzing? Don’t you know parts of theAeneidby heart? I seem to remember that’s what I heard the afternoon I arrived.”
“We know lots of parts of poems and stories by heart—it’s the first thing we do with all books,” said Teseris in her gentle voice. “He says it’s how you learn to love books; it’s got a lot to do with memory. He says that when men fall in love with women they learn their faces by heart so they can remember them later. They notice the color of their eyes, the color of their hair; whether they like music, prefer chocolate or biscuits, what their brothers and sisters are called, whether they write a diary, or have a cat...”
Miss Prim’s expression softened a little. There it was again, the strange, dark, concentrated delicacy, the infuriating male ego combined with unexpected streaks of grace.
“It’s the same thing with books,” continued Teseris. “In lessons we learn bits by heart and recite them. Then we read the books and discuss them and then we read them again.”
The librarian removed her jacket with neat gestures and sat down on a bench.
“So your uncle believes you should enjoy books, not study them?”
