“Only if you take back your insult,” she said stonily.
“Fine, I take back what I said. But, for the record, it wasn’t an insult. I was describing your behavior, I wasn’t describing you.”
“Please, don’t start with your theological distinctions. You’re not going to trick me again.”
“Would you please just listen?” he insisted, pronouncing the words slowly and deliberately.
Miss Prim raised her eyes and looked at him. The day had started badly. It had been a mistake to attend the meeting at the tearoom. It had also been a mistake to let him give her a lift to the village. Had she not accepted his offer, she wouldn’t have had to listen to all that praise heaped upon the beauty of another woman. Nor would she have got carried away flirting with the young vet, much less spouted all that nonsense about how much she liked animals. She, who had always been afraid of dogs and disliked cats. How could she have been so stupid?
“No, you’re right, I am a fool,” she said with tears in her eyes.
He took her tenderly by the hand and looked at her with an expression that she didn’t know how to interpret.
“Come on, you’re not a fool, Prudencia. You just act like one. Please don’t cry. People like me can’t handle tears; we haven’t been granted that gift. Listen to me: the fact is, there are some things that make you suffer, and they make you suffer because you don’t fully understand them, that’s all.”
She wiped away her tears and smiled.
“Between us it always boils down to that, doesn’t it? You understand things that I don’t.”
“No, that’s not right, at least not quite. Will you listen to me now?”
Miss Prim assured him that she would. He switched on the engine, offered her another sip of brandy, and shifted in his seat before speaking.
“First of all, there’s no such thing as definitive victory over one’s faults, Prudencia. It’s not an arena in which mere willpower works. Our nature is defective, like an old, broken locomotive, so however hard we try, we’re bound to fail. Getting upset about it is absurd and, though it might make you angry to hear it, arrogant too. You won’t like this but, when we fail, what we have to do is ask for help from the machine’s maker. And always allow the maker to improve things with a good application of oil from time to time.”
“That’s a religious explanation, and I’m not a religious woman. Please don’t use that argument with me, it’s not valid,” she said, her nose red from crying as well as from the cold.
He leaned his head back and laughed.
“That answer isn’t worthy of a lucid mind, Prudencia. And it’s a product of the anti-Thomist education you’re so proud of. The question here, and in any other discussion, is not whether my argument is religious, but whether it’s right. Can’t you see the difference? Give me your counterargument, Prudencia. Say you think that what I’ve said is wrong and explain why, but don’t tell me that my argument fails because it’s religious. The only reason it might not work here or anywhere else is simply because it’s wrong.”
“All right then, I’m telling you it doesn’t work because it’s wrong.”
“Really? That means you think human beings can achieve perfection and maintain moral excellence through their own efforts. Don’t you think that to err is human? Do you really think man never fails?”
“Of course I don’t, I know perfectly well that it’s human to make mistakes and that nobody’s perfect.”
“In other words, deep down you think that a large part of what I’ve said is true. The thing is, you only recognize the truth when it’s dressed up as secularism.”
Miss Prim looked at the Man in the Wing Chair through the growing darkness and wondered bitterly why, even at such gloomy moments, a conversation with him was so much more interesting than any she had with other people; why the most obstinate and odious of his species was also the most stimulating to talk to.
“I’m cold. Would you mind taking me home now?”
“Mind? I’m always happy to take you home, Prudencia.”
3
On Tuesday and Friday mornings the two youngest children of the Man in the Wing Chair’s household attended Miss Mott’s school. The older ones, though too advanced for the teacher’s lessons, also received part of their education outside the home. Three times a week they had language classes at Herminia Treaumont’s house; there were two weekly biology sessions at the village doctor’s surgery; they studied history with Horacio Delàs; botany with Hortensia Oeillet; music with Emma Giovanacci, and so on. It was on a Tuesday morning that the two little ones burst into the sitting room full of news.
“Grandmama! Miss Prim! Miss Mott’s husband’s come back!” shouted Eksi as she rushed into the room, where the two women were busy, one dealing with her correspondence, the other cataloguing the works of Swift.
“And he’s brought sweets for all the children!” added Deka who ran in after, loaded down with his sister’s books.
The Man in the Wing Chair’s mother arched her right eyebrow and continued writing, telling her grandchildren that they should wait till she’d finished what she was doing. It was Miss Prim who turned around and expressed her delight at this latest development. She knew she herself lacked experience with children, but she didn’t understand the grandmother’s cool reserve and ability to put rules and manners before her grandchildren’s spontaneity. Though at the same time, something inside her told her that the children probably owed their charm and good manners, at least in part, to her military discipline.
“Miss Mott’s husband? Are you sure? How exciting!” she cried, gently closing a third edition ofThe Battle of the Books.
“That’s right, tell Miss Prim all about it and let your poor grandmother finish her letters,” said the old lady with a glance at the librarian.
