The Awakening of Miss Prim

The Awakening of Miss Prim? Was this really the title Andrew Pudewa suggested for a view into the values of Classical education? If so, then maybe I needed to read it.

As background, it happens that I and my colleagues are frequently asked to name books that illuminate the principles of the classical liberal arts. Andrew Kern, Martin Cothran, and Christopher Perrin tend to name books like Norms and Nobility by David Hicks and a host of other writings that examine the philosophical and spiritual underpinnings of the Classical revival. But one of our merry band, Andrew Pudewa, enjoys moving his listeners even further outside of the box by suggesting writings like the delicate essays penned by his own musical mentor, Shinichi Suzuki, or, in this case, a singular novel by Natalia Sanmartin Fenollera, a young Spanish journalist who specializes in economics.

If I’ve learned anything over the past years, it is to pay attention to suggestions from people whose work I admire. So, I got a copy of The Awakening of Miss Prim from the library and sat down to read it.

Oh my, what a delight. You know those books that threaten to pass by too quickly, so one rations out the pages? Well, this was just such a story for me. On the surface, the novel tells a charming story of a confident single woman, brilliantly educated in the traditional classics, who answers an advertisement for a librarian to organize a private collection. The person owning this collection goes solely by the name “The Man in the Wing Chair.”

Arriving for her interview in a seemingly ordinary village called San Ireneo, Miss Prim steps through the looking-glass into a community that has flipped modern values on their side. San Ireneo’s inhabitants have chosen to abandon the high-level stress and material standards of their former professional lives and instead are choosing to pursue what is traditionally called the True, the Good, and the Beautiful.

Self-reliant, quirky but united by the glue of wisdom, the dwellers in San Ireneo astonish Miss Prim on a daily basis. For starters, these people believe that studying, conversation, and contemplation (best over tea and home-baked goods) ought to create the rhythm of life. In fact, they decree informally that no job should occupy more than six hours a day, or else one’s time to read and hone one’s expressive talents will be infringed upon.

The children of this village are brought up in an environment many of us long to create! Here, the boundless curiosity and energy of youth find their outlet in the easy absorption of Latin, Greek, literature, and music. All of these become playthings to the children. Even the youngest child has a deep understanding of art and poetry, both through generous exposure and assiduous teaching.

Miss Prim takes a while to come to terms with this new and odd society. Her rocky relationship with her piercingly honest employer, the “Man in the Wing Chair,” provides one of the best portraits of human connection and real romance you will ever read.

There are zingers along the way, too. At one point, a feisty 95-year-old woman, viewed by most in the community as a sage, makes surprising statements about marriage and love that will catch your attention. The author sets up the climax of the novel by sending the thoroughly confused Miss Prim to Italy in a quest to retrace the well-honed paths that have inspired thinkers and artists across the centuries.

For me, the most extraordinary passage in the book comes from a description during this Italienreise (Italian journey). Miss Prim finds herself returning to her earliest love: poetry. But her time in San Ireneo has changed her so thoroughly that poetry no longer feels like something external. Rather, it has moved into her soul:

Poetry seemed to have taken possession of her and done so with no hint of study, dissection, or analysis. It was not her enjoying the poems, it was the poems enjoying themselves in her.

I do not know how this quote will strike you. But for me, it encapsulates what each of us laboring in the educational renewal hopes to engender. Whether the medium is literary, artistic, scientific, or philosophical, we long for the masterworks we select to transcend the superficial modes of learning. We want them, in effect, to enjoy themselves in us. Just as we want the visage of the Shenandoah Valley, ringed by the soft Blue Ridge Mountains, to be implanted inside of us, streaming past our eyes to nestle in the pockets of our souls, equally we want our inherited cultural treasures to frolic inside of us, ever present when we dip into them for a refreshing drink.

That is why, within the ideal principles of Classical education, less is more. Four meaningful texts a year, for example, could easily comprise a high school or college course in literature. A menu offering a fugue by Bach, a concerto by Beethoven, a symphony by Mahler or Brahms, and an opera by Puccini provides a veritable smorgasbord of musical luxuriousness and insight, particularly if you add a Stravinsky ballet for dessert. As they say, one melody can open up the world.

Whether in a traditional survey of works or through intense study of select titles, the goal remains to let these works edify and inspire us from the inside. Not every work will find an equally welcoming home. And over time, the interiors of our inner lives change. The passing years, too, can bring a desire for more rarefied creative expressions. That is why older musicians sometimes choose to play only Bach, or only Mozart, while senior readers may devote themselves solely to Shakespeare. Within such repertoires, a complete world of expression resounds.

So I thank all of my colleagues—and so many of you—for the references and recommendations you generously offer. You cannot imagine how fun it is to open emails and find suggestions for books, articles, paintings, compositions, documentaries, and the like. We are becoming something like the fictional community of San Ireneo . . . only this is no longer fiction. It is a reawakening.

Photo: Universidad de Navarra (CC BY-SA 2.0)