“He is, he definitely is. That’s the most annoying thing about it. And I have to admit that he’s done a great job. You can’t imagine what it was like here only a few years ago.”
The librarian, who had by now put the distressing image of the volumes of Herodotus lying on the desk quite out of her mind, made herself comfortable in the armchair, looking forward to hearing some things that would satisfy her endless curiosity about the village and her employer.
“What gave him the idea of setting up this community? Few people would undertake such a daunting enterprise.”
The old lady put down her cup, leaned her head back, and half closed her eyes, as if trying to remember.
“If only I knew. Actually I don’t think it was down to one single factor. Obviously it had something to do with meeting the old Benedictine monk. I expect you’ve heard about him already.”
Miss Prim settled deeper into the armchair and drank some more of her coffee.
“As I recall, he’d just finished giving a series of lectures,” the old lady continued, “and he took a break to attend a university seminar in Kansas. He found something there, don’t ask me what. That summer he traveled to Egypt, then to Simonos Petras on Mount Athos, and he also spent time at the Benedictine abbey in Le Barroux. On his return he said he’d decided to live at the abbey here in San Ireneo for a few months. Imagine: he, who hadn’t stepped inside a church in twenty years, in a monastery of traditionalist Benedictine monks. I thought he wouldn’t be able to stand it, but a year later he asked if he could open up the house again and, as far as I can tell, that’s how this whole thing started. But you shouldn’t be surprised. Life is surprising.”
The librarian thought for a moment before asking: “But what about the children? Aren’t you worried about his influence on them?”
“Worried?” exclaimed the old lady, taken aback. “My dear Miss Prim, my grandchildren are the only children I know who can recite Dante, Virgil, and Racine; read classical texts in the original languages; and recognize most of the great pieces of classical music from a few chords. Not only am I not worried, I’m actually proud, frankly proud. It’s one of the few things I truly approve of in this hermit’s retreat my son has chosen and which, I won’t lie to you, I detest profoundly.”
“I wasn’t referring to culture, but to religion. Aren’t you concerned that they might be too religious, as it were? Too precociously religious? You know what I mean.”
The woman regarded the librarian incredulously before giving a happy laugh.
“My dear, I see you know very little about the house you live in,” she said, eyes shining with mirth.
Miss Prim peered at her, confused.
“What do you mean?”
The lady smiled.
“I mean that it wasn’t my son who instilled his beliefs in the children. He had already taken a step or two when he took charge of them after my daughter’s death. He’d discovered the depths of Christian thought and culture and he was delighting in the beauty of worship. But he hadn’t taken the final step. He was still, so to speak, on the threshold. Don’t you understand? It wasn’t him; it was them. It was the children, the childrenthemselveswho guided him to where he is today.”
The arrival of the Man in the Wing Chair’s mother marked a turning point in Miss Prim’s life. From the day of their first meeting, the librarian found that her social life was considerably enriched. The old lady immediately adopted her as an inseparable companion. Soon she considered it perfectly natural to take Miss Prim with her to all the social engagements that filled her diary.
“Today we must go and drop in on poor Miss Mott,” she said as they walked to the village one afternoon. “You don’t know her, of course—she’s our schoolteacher. I was a member of the selection panel, several years ago now, and I feel a certain responsibility, so I visit her whenever I’m in San Ireneo. This is the place. Obviously in spring it’s much prettier than it is now, but isn’t it charming?”
Miss Prim admitted that she had never seen a school like it. Standing in the center of the village right on the main square, Eugenia Mott’s schoolhouse was encircled by a wooden fence literally sagging beneath the weight of numerous rosebushes whose luxuriance had now been checked by the onset of autumn. A pair of huge plane trees flanked the entrance. On a sign above the lintel hung an ancient Latin motto that proudly exhorted the young pupils:Sapere aude.
It was five o’clock in the afternoon. The children had finished their classes some time ago, and Miss Mott was busy polishing the old brass plaque which the school kept as a reminder of past glories. She was a woman of around sixty, with a plump figure and friendly smile. Her cheeks flushed and hands covered in metal polish, she greeted the two visitors solicitously and bustled them inside. Did Miss Prim like the school, she asked as she led the two ladies into the large schoolroom? How very kind! She couldn’t take the credit, of course, the school had been there for many years. But now that Miss Prim mentioned it, she had to confess that everyone asked how she managed to grow such perfect roses in a garden full of boisterous children. Naturally, she had a little trick, a teacher couldn’t manage in life without one. Hers consisted in allocating a rosebush to each child at the beginning of the school year. This small distinction made them feel proud and important, and helped them to develop a sense of responsibility. She only hadthe children for three years; she taught them little more than reading and writing, a smattering of geometry, some arithmetic, and maybe even the rudiments of rhetoric.
While Miss Mott’s chatter filled the classroom, battering the librarian’s sensibilities, the mother of the Man in the Wing Chair kept quiet. Apparently absorbed in her thoughts, she walked slowly around the room before coming to a stop in front of an old wooden coat rack filled with the children’s paint-spattered overalls. Then she turned and directed her beautiful, worldly wise gaze at the teacher.
“Are you happy here, Eugenia?”
Caught off guard, Miss Mott blushed and had to clear her throat before replying.
“What a funny question! Yes, I would say so. Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”
The mother of the Man in the Wing Chair sat down at one of the desks and peered at something carved into the wood.
“I’d say that it wasn’t my question that was funny but your answer. Why shouldn’t you be? I could give you many reasons. First, because happiness is not the natural state of human beings. Or perhaps because teaching so many children for all these years would exhaust anyone. Or even,” the lady lowered her voice almost imperceptibly, “because he hasn’t returned, after all.”
The librarian suddenly felt uncomfortable. Her employer’s mother’s remark seemed to refer to some disappointment in love. Miss Prim disapproved of both heartbreak and its consequences. She disliked what it did to people, didn’t enjoy seeing the havoc it wreaked, and didn’t appreciate witnessing its victories. For this reason, before Eugenia could reply, she hastily announced that she would like to go out and take a stroll among the laurels and chrysanthemums in the gardens.
“How delicate you are, Prudencia! Don’t worry, it’s an old story and I don’t mind people knowing it now. Actually I’ve learned to live with it and be reasonably happy. No, my husband hasn’t returned. He definitely hasn’t returned. But I’m no longer waiting for him. I couldn’t live my life like that.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” snapped the old lady. “There’s something sinister about the idea of waiting. I have never waited for anybody. My son, however, considers it a virtue.”
“He considers waiting to be a virtue?” asked Miss Prim with interest. “In what sense?”
