: The Story of Malta by Ballou Maturin M Maturin Murray - Malta History

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Translator: Michael Wooff

The Novel on the Tram

Benito P?rez Gald?s

The tram left the end of the Salamanca district to pass through the whole of Madrid in the direction of Pozas. Motivated by a selfish desire to sit down before others with the same intention, I put my hand on the handrail of the stair leading to the upper deck, stepped onto the platform and went up. At the same time I collided with another passenger who was getting on the tram from the other side. I looked at him and recognized my friend Don Dionisio Cascajares y de la Vallina, a man as inoffensive as he was discreet, who had at this critical juncture the goodness to greet me with a warm and enthusiastic handshake. The shock of our unexpected meeting did not have serious consequences apart from the partial denting of a certain straw hat placed on top of the head of an English woman who was trying to get on behind my friend, and who suffered, no doubt for lack of agility, a glancing blow from his stick. We sat down without attaching exaggerated importance to this slight mishap and started to chat.

Don Dionisio Cascajares is a famous doctor, although not for the depth of his knowledge of pathology, and a good man, since it could never be said of him that he was inclined to take what did not belong to him, nor to kill his fellow men by means other than those of his dangerous and scientific vocation. We can be quite sure that the leniency of his treatment and his complacency in not giving his patients any other treatment than the one they want are the root cause of the confidence he inspires in a great many families, irrespective of class, especially when, in his limitless kindness, he also has a reputation for meting out services over and above the call of duty though always of a rigorously honest nature. Nobody knows like he does interesting events which are not common knowledge, and no-one possesses to a higher degree the mania of asking questions, though this vice of being overly inquisitive is compensated for in him by the promptness with which he tells you everything he knows without others needing to take the trouble to sound him out. Judge then if such a fine exemplar of human flippancy would be in demand with the curious and the garrulous. This man, my friend as he is everyone's, was sitting next to me when the tram, slipping smoothly along its iron road, was going down the calle de Serrano, stopping from time to time in order to fill the few seats that still remained empty. We were so hemmed in that the bundle of books I was carrying with me became a source of great concern to me, and I was putting it first on one knee, then on the other. Finally I decided to sit on it, fearing to disturb the English lady, whose seat just happened to be next to me on my left.

"And where are you going?" Cascajares asked me, looking at me over the top of his dark glasses, which made me feel that I was being watched by four eyes rather than two. I answered him evasively and he, not wanting to lose any time before finding something out, insisted on asking questions: "And what's so-and-so up to? And that woman, what's-her-name, where is she?" accompanied by other inquiries of the same ilk which were not fully replied to either. As a last resort, seeing how useless his attempts were to start a conversation, he set off on a path more in keeping with his expansive temperament and began to spill the beans:

"Poor countess!" he said, expressing with a movement of his head and facial features his disinterested compassion. "If she had followed my advice, she would not be in such a critical situation."

"Quite clearly," I replied mechanically, doing compassionate homage also to the aforementioned countess. "Just imagine," he continued, "that they've let themselves be dominated by that man! And that man will end up being master of the house. Poor woman! She thinks that with tears and lamentations all can be remedied, but it isn't so. She must make a decision, for that man is a monster; I believe he has it in him to commit the most heinous crimes."

"Yes, he'll stop at nothing," I said, unconsciously participating in his indignation.

"He's like all those low-born men who follow their base instincts. If they raise their station in life, they become insufferable. His face is a clear indication that nothing good can come out of all this."

"It hits you in the face. I believe you."

"I'll explain it to you in a nutshell. The countess is an excellent woman, angelic, as discreet as she is beautiful and deserving of something far better. But she is married to a man who does not understand the value of the treasure he possesses and he spends his life given over to gambling and to all sorts of illicit pastimes. She in the meantime gets bored and cries. Is it surprising that she tries to dull her pain honestly, here and there, wherever a piano is being played? Moreover I myself give her this advice and say it loud and clear: Madam, seek diversion. Life's too short. The count in the end will have to repent of his follies and your sufferings will then be over. It seems to me I'm right."

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