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.
I
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 (a fateful meeting!)
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."
"No doubt about it," I replied off the cuff, although, in my heart
of hearts, as indifferent as I had been to begin with to the sundry
misfortunes of the countess. "But that's not the worst of it,"
Cascajares added, striking the floor with his stick, "for now the
count, in the prime of life, has started to be jealous, yes, of a
certain young man who has taken to heart the enterprise of helping
the countess to enjoy herself."
"The husband will be to blame if he succeeds."
"None of that would matter as the countess is virtue incarnate; none
of that would matter, I say, if there was not a terrible man whom I
suspect of being about to cause a disaster in that house."
"Really? And who is he, this man?" I asked with a spark of curiosity.
"A former butler, well-liked by the count, who has set himself to make
a martyr of the countess as unhappy as she is sensitive. It seems
that he is now in possession of a certain secret which could compromise
her, and with this weapon he presumes to do God knows what. It's
infamous!"
"It certainly is and he merits an exemplary punishment," I said,
discharging in turn the weight of my wrath on that man.
"But she is innocent, she is an angel. But enough said! We've
reached Cibeles. Yes, on the right I can see Buenavista Park. Have
them stop, boy. I'm not one of those who jump off while the tram is
still moving to split open their heads on the cobbles. Farewell, my
friend, farewell."
The tram stopped and Don Dionisio Cascajares y de la Vallina got off
after shaking my hand again and inflicting more slight damage on the
hat of the English lady who had not yet recovered from her original
scare.