“No, I have to admit that there isn’t.”
“Oh, but why not?” cried the librarian. “Can’t you see that erudition is one thing and delicacy quite another? You know a great deal about literature, but you know nothing about femininity.”
“However hard I might try.”
“Don’t take this as a joke, it’s important. And, for your information, Herminia agrees with me. No one’s claiming that Louisa May Alcott is Jane Austen, but then Robert Louis Stevenson isn’t Dante.”
The Man in the Wing Chair looked at her with interest.
“You know what surprises me about all this, Prudencia? I look at you—a highly qualified, determined, modern woman—and I can’t picture you readingLittle Women.”
Miss Prim put her turned-up nose in the air with even more emphasis than usual.
“And why not, may I ask?”
“Because it’s a prissy, syrupy book, and if there’s one thing I hate it’s cloying sentimentality. I’m delighted that you and Herminia recognize that Louisa May Alcott isn’t Jane Austen, because she most definitely is not.”
“Have you read it?” she said. “Little Women, I mean.”
“No, I haven’t read it,” he replied, unfazed.
“Then for once in your life, stop pontificating and read it before giving an opinion.”
He burst out laughing and looked at her with renewed interest.
“Are you telling me to readLittle Women? Me?”
“Yes, you. The least you could do before condemning a book is read it, don’t you think?”
“But what about Miss Mott? Have we already forgotten Miss Mott?”
The librarian pulled on her coat and gloves, picked up the turkey, and, heading to the door, muttered: “Of course we haven’t forgotten Miss Mott. I bet you she hasn’t readLittle Women, either.”
The Christmas Eve dinner was a success, despite the unpleasant argument that preceded it involving reproaches, accusations, and the threat of tears from the cook. Miss Prim managed to assert her authority with skill and courage. After all, she explained to the dragon who so jealously guarded the kitchen, Christmas was a congenial, family occasion, a time for sharing and celebration. And what better way to share and celebrate than to cook together? Thrown off course by Miss Prim’s eloquence, the cook had given in at last, but not without pointing out that Christmas was far more than this. That was what she’d learned, what her mother had taught her, and her mother before her; and that was what the old Father at the abbey had explained, and the master himself said the same. No, this was only a small part of Christmas, the least important, if she didn’t mind her saying so.
“Of course I don’t mind, Mrs. Rouan, because it’s the truth. And truth never changes, as you well know.” Drawn by the delicious smell of roasting turkey, the Man in the Wing Chair had come sauntering into the kitchen, but at the sight of Miss Prim’s dismayed expression he stopped in his tracks.
“I don’t think this is a good evening for an argument,” he said, sensing the tension between the two women. Then, approaching the cook, he whispered in her ear: “Let her do her cooking, Mrs. Rouan, that turkey won’t be a patch on your delicious roast beef, no doubt about it.”
Puffed up with pride, the cook didn’t say another word, and instead applied herself to her soufflé while keeping an eye on the three types of cake baking in the old oven. An hour and a half later, the meal was ready. The children were rushing around in excitement at the prospect of bedtime being so much later than usual, the ancient family dinner service was laid on a spotless linen tablecloth and the guests—Horacio Delàs and Judge Bassett, who had come for dinner on that day for years—were settled comfortably in the sitting room. While Miss Prim was changing she could hear the commotion of everyone embracing, laughing, singing, and exchanging Christmas greetings.
Half an hour later, seated at the immense dining-room table, as she let the lively conversation wash over her and smiled from time to time at the Man in the Wing Chair, Miss Prim felt nostalgic, though she could not say exactly why. Along with the others, she listened in silence to the youngest child read from the Gospel according to St. Luke. After dinner, she walked with them as, wrapped in coats and scarves and furnished with candles, they processed merrily through the freezing night air to Midnight Mass at the old abbey. But she left them there, at the doors to the ancient monastery, whose illuminated windows shone like a lighthouse out of the darkness.
“Are you sure you won’t come in?” asked Horacio. “You know I’m not a believer, but I attend out of respect and appreciation. Believe me, at least on an evening like this, it’s worth it. The ancient Roman liturgy is incomparably beautiful.”
“Thank you, Horacio, but I’m very tired,” Prudencia replied politely, as she watched all the residents of San Ireneo arrive in groups, large and small, including numerous children muffled up to their eyebrows against the bone-chilling cold.
The stars were shining brightly in the sky as Miss Prim turned and headed back to the house. At a fork in the road, she stopped and looked at her watch. After a few moments’ hesitation, she took the path that led to the village. The cheerful shop lights had been extinguished but the windows of the houses were softly lit, as if waiting for their occupants to return from the service, and they lent the streets a warm, welcoming air. She reached the main square and, with resolute steps, made her way to the old tearoom, which was still open. A wave of warmth greeted her as she opened the door. Inside, the tables and counter were deserted. It took her a moment to notice the woman sitting at the window, bent over a cup of tea with a book in her hand.
“I thought you were at the abbey with the others,” said Miss Prim.
The mother of the Man in the Wing Chair looked up and gestured for the librarian to sit down.
“I never stay for the service. I find it too emotional. I walk all the way there with them but when we arrive, I tell the children that Grandmama would rather sit at the back. I’ve done it ever since they’ve been old enough to know what’s what, but you know something?”
“This year it didn’t work,” replied Miss Prim with a mischievous smile, removing her scarf and gloves and ordering a cup of hot chocolate.
The old lady looked at her, impressed.
