Produced by Michael Wooff
The Novel on the Tram
Benito Pérez Galdós (1843-1920)
This translation of La novela en el tranvía,which I have entitled The Novel on the Tram,is granted to the public domain by its translator,Michael Wooff.
The tram left the end of the Salamanca district to pass through thewhole of Madrid in the direction of Pozas. Motivated by a selfishdesire to sit down before others with the same intention, I put myhand on the handrail of the stair leading to the upper deck, steppedonto the platform and went up. At the same time (a fateful meeting!)I collided with another passenger who was getting on the tram fromthe other side. I looked at him and recognized my friend Don DionisioCascajares 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 warmand enthusiastic handshake. The shock of our unexpected meeting didnot have serious consequences apart from the partial denting of acertain straw hat placed on top of the head of an English woman whowas trying to get on behind my friend, and who suffered, no doubt forlack of agility, a glancing blow from his stick. We sat down withoutattaching exaggerated importance to this slight mishap and started tochat.
Don Dionisio Cascajares is a famous doctor, although not for the depthof his knowledge of pathology, and a good man, since it could neverbe said of him that he was inclined to take what did not belong tohim, nor to kill his fellow men by means other than those of hisdangerous and scientific vocation. We can be quite sure that theleniency of his treatment and his complacency in not giving hispatients any other treatment than the one they want are the rootcause 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 thecall of duty though always of a rigorously honest nature. Nobodyknows 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 inhim by the promptness with which he tells you everything he knowswithout others needing to take the trouble to sound him out. Judgethen if such a fine exemplar of human flippancy would be in demandwith the curious and the garrulous. This man, my friend as he iseveryone's, was sitting next to me when the tram, slipping smoothlyalong its iron road, was going down the calle de Serrano, stoppingfrom time to time in order to fill the few seats that still remainedempty. We were so hemmed in that the bundle of books I was carryingwith me became a source of great concern to me, and I was putting itfirst 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 benext to me on my left.
"And where are you going?" Cascajares asked me, looking at me overthe top of his dark glasses, which made me feel that I was beingwatched by four eyes rather than two. I answered him evasively andhe, not wanting to lose any time before finding something out,insisted on asking questions: "And what's so-and-so up to? Andthat woman, what's-her-name, where is she?" accompanied by otherinquiries of the same ilk which were not fully replied to either.As a last resort, seeing how useless his attempts were to start aconversation, he set off on a path more in keeping with his expansivetemperament and began to spill the beans:
"Poor countess!" he said, exp