The Novel on the Tram by Benito Pérez Galdós

Many thanks to Michael Wooff for translating this short story and making it available at Project Gutenberg. It's a wonderful piece that hints at what we will see in later works by Galdós. Published in 1871, "The Novel on the Tram" is close in tone and style to Galdós' first novel The Shadow. The story itself is sort of a historical document since the first tram lines began running in Madrid just a few months earlier in 1871. Galdós uses this novelty to wonder what would happen if we set Don Quixote on a tram? That's close to what we end up with in this short story.

The story is brief—the narrator gets on a tram to return some books to a friend. He bumps into a gossipy friend of his who begins to tell him about what may or may not be a true story. The friend, a doctor, tells about a beautiful countess who has an indiscreet admirer and a scheming butler. The narrator barely listens to the tale until the doctor tells about some mysterious hold the butler has over the countess. The narrator, his interest piqued, is left hanging as the doctor exits the tram and leaves the story unfinished. The narrator realizes the newspaper he has wrapped the books he's returning has a feuilleton printed in it that appears to pick up the doctor's story. He reads the continuation and, despite some differences with the doctor's story, begins to imagine characters from the story entering and exiting the tram. On his return tram ride he overhears snippets of stories and assumes they are part of the countess' story. The short story climaxes when he thinks he sees the offending butler from the story, assaults him and holds him for arrest. Finally he tells the reader that he has been institutionalized in an asylum for several months because of these actions, but he has returned to normal. Well, except for the part where he says he will devote the same consideration he spent on the countess' story to an amusing character seen on the tram.

The short story provides touches of humor and slyness that is more pronounced in later works by Galdós, with plenty of hints of ambiguity and irony. The narrator confesses early on that he can be self-centered: he muscles his way onto the tram "motivated by a self desire to sit down before others." His self-absorption lends itself to seeing everything unfolding around him as related to the story on which he becomes fixated. The narrator confesses the books he is returning to his friend are bad novels, apparently poisoning his mind so that he becomes preoccupied with searching for continuation of the feuilleton on the tram, drawing the parallel with Don Quixote's response to chivalric novels.

Galdós' first novel had been serialized and this short story appeared in two installments of La Ilustración de Madrid, providing some humorous comparisons of his own work to the installment in this story. There are some additional nice touches throughout the piece. The name of the scheming butler of the feuilleton is Mudarra. Mudar in Spanish means to change or move, possibly even shedding or molting. The story clearly changes the narrator's mind as he sheds reality with his flights of fancy, seeking to complete the fictional story from the newspaper in the real world. There's plenty of comic relief, too, with the repeated injuries our narrator causes to a humorously caricatured English lady and the reactions of passengers as the narrator inserts himself into their conversations. Dreams are often important parts of Galdós' later works, and one plays a central role here. Also, despite the action talking place on and around the tram, Galdós details the route and several of the surrounding landmarks so that it was easy for me to pull up an online map of Madrid today and follow where the action took place.

If you haven't read anything by Galdós, this short story is a good introduction. And if you have, you'll enjoy seeing some of his early developments toward his mastery of the novel. Highly recommended.

The Galdós Portrait in The Realists by C. P. Snow

I stumbled across a copy of The Realists: Eight Portraits by C. P. Snow (Scribners, 1978) in our library and promptly checked it out when I saw Benito Pérez Galdós listed. I had no idea this existed, so I wanted to pass this on. I thoroughly enjoyed Snow’s essay and highly recommend it for readers wanting to know more about Galdós.

I quote from the Preface in order to credit the people that helped Snow in his portrait on Galdós. There were

two friends who have given me the most generous help about Galdós. I came to him, unlike all the others in the book, late in life. As soon as I read him, I had no doubt that he was one of the major realistic novelists. But I was very ignorant about him apart from the texts I was reading. Then I had the good fortune to get in touch with David Ley, now the London editor of the Revista de Occidente and for years the cultural attaché at the British embassy in Madrid. Through him I met Pedro Ortíz Armengol, at present minister-counsellor at the Spanish embassy in London, a devoted Galdós scholar who has remarkable knowledge, not only of Galdós’s work, but of the history and geography of Galdós’s life, including the streets he walked in nineteenth-century Madrid. Señor Ortíz is engaged himself in preparing a new edition of Fortunata y Jacinta and writing an introduction to that great work. Both of these friends have provided me with their own material, published and unpublished, answered and discussed matters of judgment. It was an unusual piece of luck to have come to know them, and I am more grateful than I can easily say.

A sidenote: in Galdós: Fortunata and Jacinta (Landmarks of World Literature) by Harriet S. Turner (Cambridge University Press, 1992), the author mentions Pedro Ortíz Armengol’s annotated edition of Fortunata and Jacinta published in 1979 “contains genealogies, illustrations and maps of Old Madrid. A revised version of the notes, Apuntaciones para Fortunata y Jacinta (Madrid, 1987), packs this wealth of information into one, accessible paperback volume.” (page 119).

If you are at all interested in Benito Pérez Galdós, whether you’ve read a little bit about him or even one of his books (or several, for the lucky ones), I highly recommend Snow’s portrait. It gives plenty of personal background on Galdós that I have not seen in English. What follows is a superficial summary of what Snow provides (and note that Snow mentions only two of Galdós’ novels were in print in English translation at the time…not much has changed on that front).

One of the most beneficial things that Snow covers is Galdós’ personal life. While growing up, the emphasis is on his unobtrusiveness while taking in everything that was going on around him. Anyone who has read Galdós will understand the…well, the understanding that the author provides. And also the irony and contradictions in his writing, which seems to have been present in his life from the start. His family provided both the desire for him to make a name for himself professionally, which for some (like his mother) didn’t include being an author, while others supported him emotionally and financially.

Galdós seemed happy to follow family advice to go off to Madrid, not because he would be studying law, since the faculty repeatedly reported that he had failed his courses because of insufficient attendance, but because he was in Madrid instead of Las Palmas in the Canary Islands. He earned a nickname from the tertulia group he hung out with: “While the other young men talked for hours about politics, religion, women, he sat unobtrusively making paper birds. … Galdós also made paper figures of celebrated Madrid prostitutes. In most student circles, that must have been even more popular. Some of them nicknamed him El chico de las putas.” By dubbing him “the child of whores,” his classmates seemed to have figured out at least part of what he had been doing instead of attending class. More on that proclivity later…

Then the family packed Galdós off to Paris, which is difficult to see how this would redirect his thoughts toward practicing law. It was this trip that Galdós probably immersed himself in Balzac and formulated what he wanted to do. And also highlights his peculiar devotions. It’s clear from his writings that he loves Spain, but he also thought that Spain needed a rebirth, which could only come from individuals. His novels show models of behavior he admires as well as behavior that didn’t. While seeming to be a very religious person, Galdós constantly lampooned the Church, pointing out that “in its medieval power and in blank ignorance, … kept Spain primitive.” (226)

Galdós’ first success were in his historical novels, which led to him becoming a best-selling author in Spain. Some of these novels were translated into other languages, but unfortunately few cared to read about a country waning in power and outside the mainstream. Once translated and ignored, it’s difficult to get a second chance.

His episodes of Spanish history make him successful in Spain, providing fame and money, but it’s at this point he began his greatest works. Snow spends a lot of time covering Las Desheradada (The Disinherited) and Fortunata y Jacinta, probably because those were the only two translations available in English at the time of Snow’s portrait. Snow highlights the historical events underlying these novels, royal abdications and restorations for example, that isn’t what makes the novels successful. It’s the detail Galdós spends with the characters, usually from the Spanish middle class and below. These are the people that Galdós knew from his time in Madrid through direct interaction or from exploring Madrid’s under-/other-side.

Galdós’ success in his novels for me (and notably for Snow) is the voice and understanding he gives to female characters. And then there’s the accusations of Galdós going over to Zola-type naturalism, which don’t interest me at all in the distinctions between realism and naturalism, but Snow provides what he describes as an alleviating difference Galdós provides that keeps him closer to realism: “There is always an interpreting and personal intelligence” (238).

Snow goes into much more detail about Galdós’ personal life and habits in Madrid than I’ve seen elsewhere, even highlighting some of the self-recriminations (and possibly admissions) he included in his novels. It’s clear Galdós knew the streets of Madrid, both upscale and otherwise, and his proclivity for afternoon trysts with women may have been a major reason for his financial difficulties. Some of the best portraits of characters in his novels are from the lower classes, and while it may be too much to say he had a comfort with the people on this level he was describing, I think it's not too much of a stretch to say that he understood them extremely well.

These assignations and hideouts of Galdós are detailed more than I’ve seen elsewhere, and I think they help explain the incredibly detailed and compassionate descriptions of such interiors in his novels. As friends of his used to say, Galdós had two passions: writing and women.

Snow continues with Galdós’ career as he turned his attention to plays and his difficulty with money. His poverty became a cause célèbre in Spain, with subscriptions raised and royal stipends granted. Worse, though, was the stroke he had in his mid-sixties and his failing eyesight. He had operations for the cataracts he had in both eyes, but they failed and he was effectively blind. The last seven years of his life he had no sight, and this was a man that “lived more through the eye. It was a dark and at times a Lear-like end.” (253) He was able to dictate plays and didn’t stop visiting the women, with help on both fronts—someone to take dictation for the former, and a manservant escort for the latter. Snow describes his funeral train, with possibly twenty thousand people following it, comparing it to the demonstrations of grief for Dostoevsky’s and Hugo’s deaths.

Snow’s portrait is no substitute for Galdós’ writing, but it does help explain some of what I've seen in his writings and what he was thinking when he wrote. Because it is much more detailed that anything else I’ve seen on Galdós’ literary and personal life that is available in English, I highly recommend it.

Tristana by Benito Pérez Galdós at The Mookse and the Gripes

Trevor at The Mookse and the Gripes was kind enough to post my comments on the recent translation of Tristana by Benito Pérez Galdós, so please give him some click-love: the review

NYRB has provided a major service to readers by publishing Margaret Jull Costa's translation of Galdós' novel. While I really enjoyed the earlier English translation, it was expensive and mostly limited to university libraries. I'm a big fan of Galdós and I'm happy to see NYRB expanding his availability beyond scholars and weird unconventional readers.

As I mention in the post, if you haven’t read anything by Galdós, Tristana provides an interesting (and maybe problematic) introduction to the writer. It’s a book that the author seemed to dismiss before its release while many of his supporters and critics were left disappointed by the author’s unsatisfying (to them) ending. Check out the post to find out more about the book.

In the Introduction, writer and literary critic Jeremy Terglown analyzes the ambiguous wording at the end of the novel. We explore that detail in the comments. Hope to "see" you there!

And a minor point, but important for anyone wanting to read more Galdós...keep in mind he uses characters across multiple novels. From Tristana, remember the doctor Augusto (Alejandro) Miquis. The kind doctor makes appearances across many of Galdós' novels. I'll point to a previous note on him as well as the more detailed article "Manuel Tolosa Latour: prototype of Augusto Miquis" by Ruth Schmidt. Latour and Galdós were quite good friends and both men substituted the name of Miquis for Latour when writing each other.

Tristana by Benito Pérez Galdós

Tristana by Benito Pérez Galdós
Translated from the Spanish by Margaret Jull Costa
Introduction by Jeremy Terglown
(Review copy courtesy of NYRB)

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Update (4 March 2015):
I wanted to wait a month before I posted the full review. There may be some differences from Trevor's post at The Mookse and the Gripes. My notes follow:

NYRB has done a wonderful service by publishing this short 1892 novel by Benito Pérez Galdós. I reviewed the only available English translation of the novel prior to the NYRB edition, Tristana: Buñuel’s Film and Galdós’ Novel: A Case Study in the Relation Between Literature and Film by Colin Partridge (New York: The Edwin Mellen Press, 1995) and found it to be a wonderful book full of Galdosian ambiguity and irony. If you haven’t read anything by Galdós, Tristana provides an interesting (and maybe problematic) introduction to the writer. It’s a book that the author seemed to dismiss before its release while many of his supporters and critics were left disappointed by the author’s unsatisfying (to them) ending.

Tristana follows the trials and tribulations of the youthful, orphaned Tristana and the two lovers in her life. The first lover is her guardian, Don Lepe, an aging Don Juan who couldn’t resist one last conquest of the young girl. The second lover is Horacio, a painter with a similar background as Tristana. The more time Tristana spends with Horacio, the more she tends to rebel against Don Lepe. She seeks to educate herself and develop her nascent talents, dreaming of a life of independence on her own terms. An illness and infection causes her to lose a leg, dashing many of her hopes for the future.

Tristana is often at the center of events, but she rarely develops beyond superficial changes. Even though she tries to advance, personally and professionally, she is always at the mercy of circumstances. Galdós often uses names to highlight a point or provide irony, and Tristana follows that pattern. Triste means gloom or sadness, the station in life she is consigned to after her parents die and she becomes Don Lope’s ward and eventual lover. The name also alludes to the mythical Tristan and the doomed love affair with Isolde, providing a foreshadowing of Tristana’s relationship with Horacio. In one of her letters to Horacio, Tristana summarizes many beliefs she expresses over the course of the novel:

“I find the problem of my life more overwhelming the more I think about it. I want to be somebody in the world, to cultivate an art, to live by my own means. I’m so easily discouraged. Am I really attempting the impossible? I want to have a profession, and yet I’m useless, I know nothing about anything. It’s just awful.

“My ambition is to not have to depend on anyone, not even on the man I adore. I don’t want to be his mistress—so undignified—or a woman maintained by a few men purely for their amusement, like a hunting dog; nor do I want the man of my dreams to become a husband. I see no happiness in marriage. To put it in my own words, I want to be married to myself and to be my own head of the household. I wouldn’t know how to love out of obligation; I can only promise constancy and endless loyalty in a state of total freedom. I feel like protesting against men, who have appropriated the whole world for themselves and left us women only the narrowest of paths to take, the ones that were too narrow for them to walk along…” (95-6; ellipsis in original)

Tristana had met Horacio by accident, continuing to meet him in secret. Don Lope knows something is going on, but refuses to stop it, knowing that no possible lover can compare to him. On this point, he’s right, although there’s plenty of irony in it, too. Horacio’s life started similar to Tristana’s situation. He was orphaned and raised by a strict grandfather. But when his grandfather dies, Horacio achieves financial security from the inheritance, allowing him to pursue his love of painting. His bohemian life in a Madrid suburb, though, is only playacting. He’s easily distracted by Tristana. He acts like a rebel but it’s Tristana that’s the real non-conformist. Tristana is nothing like he imagined his future wife would be like. A section of the novel traces letters exchanged by the lovers during a separation, and while they are apart Tristana deifies Horacio in her mind. There’s no way Horacio can live up to Tristana’s elevation of him and he disappoints her time and again, especially during her time of illness and convalescence.

In many ways, Don Lope (or more formally, Don Juan López Garrido), the aging Don Juan, steals the novel. He follows his own perverted chivalric code. His code has so many twists and turns he can’t always keep up with what he thinks he should believe, but he devoutly adheres to it just the same. He believes the younger generation vastly inferior to his own, yet he also acknowledges his declining health and virility. Tristana remarks on the dual consciences of Don Lope, who behaves like nobility or someone from the gutter depending on the situation. In a way, Don Lope drives Tristana into Horacio’s arms (and eventually his bed), but he knows she will return to him. He is able to triumph using his wiles and experience. Early on in the novel, the narrator (with a touch of Galdós’ irony) puts Don Lope in the dock and judges him:

If hell did not exist, it would be necessary to create one just for Don Lope, so that he could spend an eternity doing penance for his mockery of morality and thus serve as a perennial lesson for the many who, while without openly declaring themselves to be his supporters, are nonetheless to be found throughout this sinful world of ours. (18)

Each of the three main characters claims to be a rebel in their own way. Don Lope holds himself outside of social institutions until poverty and old age change his ways. Tristana assets what she views as her rights—of education, of vocation, of shunning marriage—until she falls back on an offer of security. Horacio plays the bohemian until he discovers the joys of the landed gentry. Everyone relapses into the existing social power structures, but Tristana is the only one that doesn’t have a real choice in the matter.

In many of his novels Galdós was very critical of late 19th-century Spanish society, pointing out the limited roles available to women. Galdós’ former lover, novelist and activist Emilia Pardo Bazán, was vocal about her regret that Galdós failed to develop and focus on what she saw as the central concern of the novel—Tristana’s (and thus many Spanish women’s) loneliness and isolation due to the limited choices available to her. Bazán was especially disappointed in the heroine losing power while a traditional arrangement wins in the end. As Colin Partridge put it in his essay accompanying his translation, Galdós could have made Tristana a successful woman, like Theodore Dreiser’s Carrie Meeber, a novel released at about the same time as Tristana, but the Madrid of the time didn’t afford the same opportunities as Chicago or New York. Galdós remains faithful to real life, avoiding an easy ideological resolution that would ring false.

As the Spanish critic and author Clarín (Leopoldo Alas) pointed out, Tristana’s immaturity and lack of development occurs because she is at the mercy of forces much more powerful than she could hope to overcome. She is doomed to non-fulfillment because of the imposed social conventions. In this way Tristana is very much like Alas’ heroine Ana Ozores in La Regenta, released just a few years later (and there are several more similarities in La Regenta found in Tristana, such as rapid aging in older men, seemingly caused by sexual conquests).

One of the quirks in the novel compared to Galdós’ other works (and Colin Partridge also points this out in his commentary), is that Tristana happens in Madrid’s sprawling suburb to the north—Chamberí. Instead of the usual crowded, bustling urban life in other of his novels Galdós’ isolates these characters outside of mainstream society. While the three main characters each stand in for something larger, the tie feels much looser than in Galdós’ other novels because of this isolation. In this sense I think Galdós achieved precisely what Bazán wanted to see. This is Tristana’s story, and it reflects exactly the same criticisms Bazán had. Does the ending satisfy? No, and that’s precisely the point. The characters don’t live happily ever after despite the ambiguous ending.

Galdós’ message is evasive, not because it is muddled but because his apparent points could be applied to more than his immediate topic. His commentary on the morality of the age shares the wish that people should be free to do as they please, but societal influences/power make people act counter to their interests. Yet all three characters are lacking something and fall back on societal norms, almost with relief and benefit. Tristana’s lot is the worst—she essentially says she is damaged goods, unfit for anything after Don Lope had his way with her. Yet she can never follow through on any attempt at independence, even with others trying to help her accomplish it. It’s a wonderful little novel because Galdós avoids an easy answer, not catering to ideological resolutions that would have felt false while still providing plenty of social commentary along the way. Very highly recommended.

Upcoming: Tristana by Benito Pérez Galdós (and watch the movie now!)

I reviewed Tristana by Benito Pérez Galdós about two years ago. The version of the booked I posted on was Tristana: Buñuel’s Film and Galdós’ Novel: A Case Study in the Relation Between Literature and Film by Colin Partridge (New York: The Edwin Mellen Press, 1995). My summary post links to the following posts related to the novel:
Far from the desired feminist manifesto
Don Lepe
Tristana
Horacio
A Fortunata and Jacinta quote that fits in nicely with Tristana

I'll be posting on the recent NYRB edition, translated by Margaret Jull Costa. The main reason of this post, though is to mention that Luis Buñuel's 1970 movie adapted from the novel is available for instant viewing until February 1, 2015. My notes on the movie adaptation can be found here. You've been notified—watch it early and often. While making some major changes from the novel, the movie is exceptional. As I've mentioned several times, Buñuel and Galdós make a perfect pairing.

The Galdós Drawings

It's August already? I wish I could say I'm tanned, rested, and ready to post. Unfortunately it feels more like pasty, stressed…but at least wanting to post.

I'll start with a wonderful site I've found regarding drawings by Benito Pérez Galdós. Dr. Michael A. Schnepf at the University of Alabama has a page on The Galdós Drawings (no longer active). Dr. Schnepf

"has been studying the original manuscripts of Benito Pérez Galdós since 1987." According to The Galdós Drawings page, Galdós said that "Before literarily creating the characters of my works," he tells Carretero, "I draw them in pencil to have them before me as I speak of them." In some cases, the fascinating manuscripts housed in the Biblioteca Nacional in Madrid and the 'Galeradas' housed in the Casa-Museo Pérez Galdós in the Canary Islands have gone virtually unnoticed for more than a hundred years . Galdós scholars can now see many of these drawings for the first time on this web site.

While the drawings are great, the part I enjoyed the most was the section on the Galeradas, or proofs. They show a combination of corrections, doodles, and many side notes. A wonderful site for anyone interested in Galdós! As Dr. Schnepf put it in his kind reply to some of my questions, "The more people we have talking about Galdis, the better." Indeed!

Upcoming Galdós translation: Tristana

Yeah!!!

Thanks to Mookse for the heads up on the upcoming Margaret Jull Costa translation of Galdós' Tristana (see his picture for more details). I have several posts on the novel and one on the movie…see the summary post for a starting point. It's a troubling novel, full of the usual ambiguity and irony of Galdós. I'm really looking forward to the new translation!

Angel Guerra, part 5: the monster in a box and more footnotes

Continuing with discussion of Angel Guerra by Benito Pérez Galdós, done mostly through footnotes so far. I’ll continue the trend in this post, but first a note about the story…

In the previous post on the book I ended with the death of Angel’s daughter, Ción. By the end of Part One of the novel Angel has had three major losses: the death of his mother Doña Sales, the death of his daughter, and the loss of his daughter’s governess, Leré. It is interesting to watch Galdós take Angel through stages of grief for two of these losses. The only grief he has on his mother’s death was his guilt at precipitating the fatal medical attack. With Ción Angel showed an initial denial anything was wrong followed by anger, mostly aimed at the family doctor Miquis. The previous post went into detail on Angel’s bargaining with God, asking the Almighty to take his mistress Dulce instead of his daughter. After Ción’s death, Angel withdraws from his mistress, friends, and previous activities.

Compounding his depression was Leré’s announcement that she was leaving the house to join an order of nuns in Toledo. The grief cycle starts again as Angel figures out how much Leré means to him, a strange attachment that has little definable basis. She’s saintly while he plays at being a revolutionary. There is a little bit of their joint attachment to Ción in the attraction, but that isn’t a major component. Angel can’t figure out why he is so smitten with Leré—he doesn’t necessarily want a normal relationship as a couple. He seems happy to have just as a friend and confidant, at least for now. The depression he feels after she leaves causes him to drop everything and follow her to Toledo.

One of the strangest parts of the novel so far is Leré’s brother Juan. She described him to Angel as a monster:

”You’ve never seen him, if you had you’d be horrified. From the waist down he’s all skinny and soft, like he didn’t have any bones; he’s got the head of a man and the body of a child, and his arms and legs are like empty pillowcases. He’s twenty-five, he can’t even crawl, and if you could see him at the table where they’ve got him, with his arms and legs all jumbled up and his head in the middle, you wouldn’t even think he’s human. He eats like there’s no tomorrow, and he can’t talk—all he can do is grunt and growl like some animal, though he can repeat any piece of music he hears and get it right on key. Once in a great while you can see a little glimmer of intelligence but it’s so small it’s not even what you might expect to see in a cat or a dog.” (130)

Early in Part Two Angel sees the monster for himself and the animal imagery/comparisons continue:

On a not very tall little table were to be seen two coiled-up legs forming a circle, looking more like the tentacles of an octopus than the limbs of a person, and in the center a human head the size of an adult’s, with features to match. The gaze, albeit idiotic, was not lacking in sweetness, and was fixed in a stare on the unknown person comtemplating it. Limp hair covered parts of its skull, and long coarse hairs—so sparse they could be counted—grew on its face. After looking hard at Guerra the head straightened up, revealing a rachitic neck and sickly bust from which hung flaccid, seemingly boneless arms, like the legs. (255)

The comparison continues as Leré feeds and treats "the monster" just as she would a dog. But on to the footnotes. While there is plenty of humor in Galdós’ novel (as well as strangeness), there’s even a joke about the writing of it. After Galdós mentions that Angel figures out that he might see Leré, who is at a retreat with nuns from the order she wishes to join, by hanging out along Santa Isabel street, we get the following footnote on page 257:

It was on Santa Isabel that Galdós supposedly lived while writing Angel Guerra, and there is a commemorative plaque to this effect at the street entrance, though no one currently living around the interior courtyard seems have the slightest notion as to which rooms he actually occupied; recent biographical studies, moreover, suggest that he may not even have been in Toledo at the time in question.

I’m not sure why I find that so funny, but I do. The “recent” part would have been in the late 1980s since this translation was published in 1990. Anyone who read (or even started) Fortunata and Jacinta will remember that Galdós had some fun with chapter titles. After starting off slowly on the irony, in Volume III he uses the chapter titles to tie the fortunes of the Juanito Santa Cruz household to that of the changes in Spanish government, with "The Victorious Restoration," "The Revolution Fails," and "Another Restoration."

The second chapter in Part Two is titled “Uncle Providence,” after Leré’s uncle, Father Mancebo. But what does it mean exactly? Is it referring to Mancebo stepping in to help his family when Leré’s Uncle Roque suffered a debilitating fall (which didn’t stop the annual arrival of a new child)? Is it his belief in winning the lottery? Is it his dreams of Leré marrying well so he can take it easy, a fantasy that includes her marrying Angel so he can administer property that had been taken away from the church? A combination of these things?

The third chapter of Angel Guerra is titled “Toledan Days,” providing this footnote on page 295 to spell out the ambiguity and possible irony in the title:

This is a remarkably good instance of the way Galdós plays around with his chapter titles. Una noche Toledana (a Toledan night) signifies a bad omen, due to an event which  supposedly took place in 803 a.d., when the Arab Governor took revenge for the murder of his son by inviting 400 Toledan nobles to dine one night. Each was decapitated as he entered the palace grounds. Galdós’ title is thus very ambiguous: a Toledan day could be just the opposite of a Toledan night, and thus a good omen; or it could be merely the precursor of that night.

As usual with Galdós, you never can tell.

All references are to A Translation of "Angel Guerra" by Benito Pérez Galdós. Lewiston (N.Y.: E. Mellen Press, 1990. translated by Karen O. Austin). Previous posts:

• Benito Pérez Galdós and his mother
• Hitting the jackpot on cross-references in Galdós novels
• More fun with footnotes in Angel Guerra, naturally
• Reviewing the book through footnotes, part 4

Reviewing Angel Guerra through Footnotes, Part 4

I seem to be reviewing the translation of Angel Guerra through footnotes, and the strange thing is I'm completely fine with that. Previous entries include

• Benito Pérez Galdós and his mother
• Hitting the jackpot on cross-references in Galdós novels
• More fun with footnotes in Angel Guerra, naturally

I've said very little about the story so far, so let's correct that. The story begins in Madrid on September 19, 1886, with a revolt similar to the real-life uprising led by General Villacampa. Angel Guerra, a widower who has been a plotter of the revolt, finds himself wounded after the mob he is in kills an army officer. Needing to keep a low profile he stays at the apartment he has provided for his mistress, Dulcenombre Babel. Angel comes from a prosperous and well-respected family so he has no intention of marrying Dulce since the Babel clan is full of low-lifes and mysterious characters. In addition, Dulce had been a prostitute to help the family make ends meet. Angel's is away from his home for over a month while his wounds heal, but he eventually hears about the ill health of his mother (Doña Sales). The prodigal son returns home in an attempt to appear remorseful, but after an argument with his mother the old lady dies. Angel finds he no longer cares about his former revolutionary slogans, instead preferring to spend time with his seven-year-old daughter Ción. Both Ción and her governess, Lerè, exert a calming/taming influence on Angel. But Ción falls ill and fails to respond to treatment. Her illness becomes serious and Angel realizes he may lose his daughter. In frustration he turns to prayer, his stream of thoughts developing a new line of argument to support his request.

The footnote on page 164 provides what I want to focus on for the rest of this post:

The line of argument [in Angel’s thought] which follows—trading Dulce for Ción—finds an echo in other Galdós novels, most especially in Torquemada in the Fire (1889), where the miser and money-lender Torquemada offers a large pearl (part of the booty from one of his extortionate loans) to the Virgin in exchange for the life of his son Valentín. It doesn’t work, of course, any more than does Angel’s proposal, but in both instances it serves to point out the character’s inability to come to terms with the real meaning of faith.

Angel's deal is far worse than you're led to believe just from the note. He doesn't just offer to quit seeing his mistress, who has been sick, if Ción survives. Angel offers an exchange of Dulce’s life for Ción’s recovery. Angel even begins to fear that his recently-deceased mother has requested that Ción join her in heaven. Angel's line of argument jumps the tracks many times with his fevered "reasoning." As mentioned in the footnote, Ción dies. Immediately after her death Angel becomes quite the changed man…but more on that later.


I have mentioned The Pérez Galdós Editions Project many times since it is a great resource on the author and his works. The Fourth Annual Pérez Galdós Lecture, Gifts in the Work of Galdós by Professor Rodolfo Cardona, covers both works mentioned in the above footnote. Section III addresses Torquemada's pleading and bargaining for the life of Valentín in (as my copy translated the title) Torquemada at the Stake. (The footnotes of the lecture provide English translations of the quotes.) Section IV looks at Angel's case in more detail, looking at some of the similarities and differences between Torquemada's and Guerra's bargaining. Professor Cardona sums up one similarity nicely: "As much in the case of Torquemada as in Angel's their failed transactions with God are the key to their characters. In both cases materialism triumphs over transcendence."

Part of the irony of Guerra's materialism lies in the shift away from his youthful idealism of social revolution. Of course, with a name like Angel War it's safe to assume there will be plenty of irony and conflict from the character. In his case there doesn't necessarily have to be any irony—Angel's talk of revolution assume changes for everyone else. He believes his privileged life will continue on just as before. There's an additional thread of similarity between Torquemada and Guerra that isn't explicitly made in the lecture, which is female influences/judgments on both characters. Tía Roma, a ragpicker, lowliest of the low, sees through Torquemada's hypocrisy in his attempted good deeds. Her dedication to good works is reflected in the governess Lerè, who has dedicated her life to serving others. Lerè doesn't judge Angel, but she makes a piercing observation during his futile offers and proposals: she notes God will do what is best for everyone, not just Angel, and that an offer not meant from the bottom of his heart will fail. Both women provide a bracing wake-up call, unheeded, to the male bargainers. As Professor Cardona notes with Torquemada, his religious influence lies not with Tía Roma but with the defrocked priest José Bailón. Bailón had written a semi-revolutionary pamphlet and, as luck would have it, Torquemada was the only person who read it. Angel, though, was under the influence of Lerè (although more after the death of his daughter), but his inability to "conquer his earthly egotism" highlights his selfish behavior.

I do want to clarify one point in the lecture. Professor Cardona says that Doña Sales, Angel's mother, lectured him in the manner of Doña Perfecta…see the excerpt translated in footnote 30 of the lecture. The sarcastic tirade of Doña Sales is a generalized speech based on the severe lecturings Angel has received from her in the past. I'll provide the full translation of its first paragraph to give a more robust insight into how Doña Sales saw Angel. (I guess I better provide details on the book I'm reading: Pérez, Galdós Benito. A Translation of "Angel Guerra" by Benito Pérez Galdós. Lewiston (N.Y.: E. Mellen Press, 1990., translated by Karen O. Austin):

"But you, why should you pay any heed to a poor ignorant woman without a fancy university degree, who doesn't know how to read all those big books in French? Oh, well, but of course…you, destined to reform society and turn everything upside-down, to restore up what's fallen and tear down anything that's still standing, you're a big man, a regular fountain of all knowledge. It's true that up to now all you've done is act the fool, vomit out blasphemy after blasphemy for the benefit of others as stupid as yourself, get yourself teamed up with the worst black sheep of every family in town, and lure the corporals and sergeants into going out like thugs to kill their own commanding officers. You're really covering yourself with glory! We'll have to wear smoked glasses just to be able to look at you, we will, because the splendor of your halo of glory blinds us, and flames of genius shoot out of your head, like sparks form a magnificent forge where they're hammering out the whole future of humanity. Good Lord, I just don't deserve such a son." (81; ellipsis in original)

As Professor Cardona notes, even with the sarcasm this highlights how different Angel is from Torquemada. Doña Sales shows a similarity with Doña Perfecta, although the latter heaped on the irony and saved the sarcasm for herself or her closest confidants. The similarities and contrasts are a nice insight into Galdós' thoughts. Charged with an anti-clerical outlook while alive, it's clear (again) that he saves his harshest judgment for people following the faith for the wrong reasons. We'll see (together) if this develops more as the novel unfolds…

More fun with footnotes in Angel Guerra, naturally

There's a footnote on page 95 of Angel Guerra (Pérez, Galdós Benito. A Translation of "Angel Guerra" by Benito Pérez Galdós. Lewiston (N.Y.: E. Mellen Press, 1990.), translated by Karen O. Austin, where Angel signals he is supporting his seven-year-old daughter's anarchy instead of imposing order, as the governess has requested. Angel’s phrase, translated, is Let us proceed, and I the first, along the constitutional path.

Angel’s phrase here—Marchemos, y yo el primero, por la senda constitucional—is an almost perfect reproduction of the phrase Marchemos francamente, yo el primero, por la senda constitucional uttered by Fernando VII when he finally found himself forced to accept—temporarily at least—the Constitution. Given that, and Angel’s own political orientation, it comes across as being both bitter and ironic. A short but very stinging Galdosian portrait of this monarch can be found in La Fontana de Oro (1870). It is perhaps worth noting in passing that one of Galdós’more famous tag-lines—francamente, naturalmente (frankly, naturally—constantly voiced by the character of Ido in Fortunata and Jacinta (1886-87), and earlier by the narrator himself at the end of The Bringas Woman (1884), may stem in part from Galdós’ disgust at Fernando’s hypocrisy.

Notice the omission of the word francamente in Angel’s phrasing. OK, this caused me to look up some of the references from the books I've read and I was surprised at what I found. (I hope to get to La Fontana de Oro in a few months…it's in the TBR stacks.)

The Bringas Woman (The Spendthrifts) first: I look to the end of my edition and do see the word “natural” near the end but doesn’t see anything worthy of pointing out. To the online Spanish edition. Francamente appears 10 times in the text, naturalmente twice, both appearing together at the end of the novel. “Francamente, naturalmente, les vi salir con pena. My Spanish is awful, but something along the lines of “Frankly, naturally, I watched them leave with regret.” Heh. That does sound like a dig at Fernando VII now that I know what to look for. As to my translation, though, I now notice there are only 47 chapters. The Spanish edition has 50. Sigh. Was something left out, or was it only reconfigured? Looks like I need to revisit this in a different translation.

On to Fortunata and Jacinta. Francamente appears only once in the online Spanish edition, naturalmente twenty times. Sr. Ido, for those that have read the novel, was the publications salesman that first shows up on the Santa Cruz doorstep on page 119 of the English translation by Agnes Moncy Gullón. He turns “electric” when he eats meat and believes his wife is having an affair. (He also provides Jacinta with some delicate “information,” but I won’t spoil it for those that haven’t read the novel.) 

Six “naturally” referenced quotes are by him just in the subchapter he’s introduced (Volume One, Chapter 8, sub-chapter 4). I’m not sure why Galdós puts the word in this character's mouth so often. My best guess is that Ido is both truthful and a fraud, a paradox the author brilliantly depicts, although he's not willingly a hypocrite. Regardless, I love little tidbits like this.

Cross-references in Galdós novels: I think I hit the jackpot

One of the many remarkable qualities of Galdós is his use of characters across many of his novels. I’ve mentioned one of these repeating characters before, the Madrid doctor Alejandro Miquis. I’m reading Angel Guerra (Pérez, Galdós Benito. A Translation of "Angel Guerra" by Benito Pérez Galdós. Lewiston [N.Y.: E. Mellen Press, 1990.), translated by Karen O. Austin, and Dr. Miquis appears yet again, this time tending to Angel’s sick mother Doña Sales. Ms. Austin provides a footnote on this character’s recurring nature and his basis on a real-life friend of Galdós but I’m going to point to this article on Manuel Tolosa Latour, “famous pediatrician, author of scientific and literary works, and long-time friend of the novelist.” Galdós would send letters to Tolosa Latour addressed to Miquis and, likewise, Tolosa Latour would sign some of his letters to Galdós as “Miquis.”

We hit the jackpot of recurring characters on pages 66-7 of the translated Angel Guearra, when a servant in Doña Sales’ house tells Angel who was visiting earlier in the evening:

The Santa Cruz and Medina ladies were around earlier, and the Marchioness of Taramundi. And Canon León is staying in the house while he’s here; but at night, after he’s eaten, he usually goes on over to visit Mr. and Mrs. Bringas.”

Santa Cruz refers to either Jacinta or her mother-in-law (Doña Barbarita Arnáiz) or possibly/probably both (Austin assumes both but I’m not completely sold given the ambiguity of the structure of the sentence. Maybe it’s clearer in the original.) Something didn’t feel right about their inclusion but I double-checked the dates of the referenced novel (which ends in the spring of 1876) and it’s conceivable that both could be part of this scene in October 1886. The Bringas reference (see here) is nice. I know they will be mentioned in at least one other translated Galdós novel I plan to post about. The inclusion I really love is of Canon León. León Pintado was a priest at the Micaelas, where Fortunata went to ‘cleanse herself’ (or at least her reputation) before her wedding to Maxi (see page 333 of the translation of Fortunata and Jacinta by Agnes Moncy Gullón for his first appearance). I knew my outline of the book would come in handy. Galdós perfectly fills in the gaps of how a jealous priest became a high-ranking canon.

I’m always amazed at Galdós’ talents, especially the world and characters he created. I think he took pride in it, too, given his direct reference on page 91 of Angel Guerra to his previous mention of León Pintado:

He was (as those who know the story of Fortunata may recall) stout and elegant, fairly well along in years, affable and conciliatory, a bit vain in his dress, of absolute intellectual and moral insignificance, a smoother-over of troubled waters, a man who liked to be on good terms with everyone, especially with those in high places.

A direct reference, early in this massive novel, to the world he created in another massive novel. I guess you can be ballsy when you have done each well.

Benito Pérez Galdós and his mother

This post and at least one more will be based on footnotes in the translation of Angel Guerra I'm currently reading (Pérez, Galdós Benito. A Translation of "Angel Guerra" by Benito Pérez Galdós. Lewiston [N.Y.: E. Mellen Press, 1990.). The translation is by Karen O. Austin. I updated my post on Doña Perfecta with this quote, but thought it worthy of a separate note since it's been a couple of weeks since that post. And yes, sometimes I do get bogged down in the minutiae…why do you ask?

I have seen several mentions of Galdós likely basing a few characters on his mother, but this footnote (on page 78 of Angel Guerra) provides a good summary:

The portrait of Doña Sales is almost ertainly based on his mother, referred to by all the family as Mama Dolores. She was a loving but very domineering mother—so much so that the author is almost always known by Galdós (Dolores’ maiden name) rather than Pérez (his father’s name) or Pérez Galdós, as would be correct. Benito was the youngest of ten children, and only managed to give her the slip when she sent him off to study at the University in Madrid in order to separate him from what she considered to be a budding undesirable connection with one Sisita, the illegitimate daughter of an uncle. Once away, he steered fairly clear of the Canaries—and of her. He was close to his family and certainly loved her, but he seems to have felt it wiser to love her from a good safe distance. There is an earlier and far more horrifying depiction of her in the protagonist of Doña Perfecta (1876). The portrait in Angel Guerra is gentler, more disposed to give her credit for her strengths as well as her flaws.

Doña Perfecta by Benito Pérez Galdós

Doña Perfecta by Benito Pérez Galdós
Translation and introduction by Harriet de Onís
Barron’s Educational Series, Inc. (Hauppauge, New York), 1960
ISBN 0-8120-0057-9

My erratic posting on Galdós’ novels resumes…hopefully I’ll have most of his English translations reviewed by the end of the year.

Doña Perfecta (1876) may be one of Galdós’ most read English translations and it's available at Project Gutenberg. I read the introduction by William Dean Howells and recommend it to anyone interested in reading the book. I’m reviewing the pictured translation, though, by Harriet de Onís. Her introduction, also excellent, covers more of Galdós’ career.

The story: José de Rey (Pepe) arrives in the decrepit town of Orbajosa to visit his Aunt Perfecta. Pepe’s father assisted Perfecta when her husband died, saving his sister from ruin and bankruptcy. She had promised her daughter, Rosario, in marriage to Pepe when the children had grown. Pepe’s father has just informed Pepe of the deal but puts no pressure on his son unless he wants to follow through on it. Pepe and Rosario quickly fall in love and plan to marry but Pepe, an engineer and very much a man of science, clashes with the traditional and religious fervor of Orbajosa. He suspects Perfecta of organizing a plot against him as numerous lawsuits attach to his property, he loses his position on a nearby project, and Rosario supposedly falls ill and is unable to see him. When Pepe confronts Perfecta she defiantly acknowledges her role in sabotaging his suit with Rosario and declares he will never marry her daughter. Pepe schemes to elope with Rosario but townspeople, whipped up by Perfecta’s anger, insure tragedy occurs.

Howells notes that Emilia Pardo-Bazan believed Doña Perfecta to be a transitional novel (and Howells agrees), only partially demonstrating the realism that would be his trademark in the next decade’s “contemporary” novels. Onís spells this out further: “The setting and the personages are abstractions, symbols which represent, in synthesis, the drama of nineteenth-century Spain.” (xi) The drama Onís refers to is the conflict between old and new, tradition and progress, religion and science. The characters in the novel aren’t the same fully formed people present in later works by Galdós.

Despite the ultimate tragedy, Doña Perfecta is full of humor. The names of the places and the characters establish the irony Galdós intends from the beginning of the novel. Orbajosa, said to be a corruption of urbs augusta, is anything BUT a majestic city. Pepe notes on his way to Orbajosa that the area and town names would make a blind man happy, “for it’s paradise to the tongue and inferno to the eyes.” The difference between intent and reality provide themes for much of the novel. The character’s names often provide laughs, too, Perfecta being the most obvious. Her Father Confessor is Inocencio, a former Latin scholar that remains innocent by washing his hands of impending tragedy in the manner of Pontius Pilate.

Perfecta turns out to be nothing short of a monster, using her religious faith as a cudgel while breaking every Christian precept in the process. Her fanaticism reaches absurd levels, especially at the end when she believes that she is the only figure that can absolve Rosario of her sin. She states her conscience is clear on all she has done and will do while believing changes in education and science undermine and corrupt the Christian faith. Pepe symbolizes progress, embracing scientific publications and changes of the times (the novel is set in the late 1860s). While damning Perfecta for her perversion of the Christian faith, Galdós seems to equally condemn Pepe’s contempt for traditions and customs. In both cases you have characters believing that they alone hold the true way and are intolerant toward anyone not believing as they do.

Behind this conflict is a divergence between the locals’ idyllic beliefs and reality. Galdós never explicitly makes a connection between the local town and Spain regarding such a divergence but Galdós prefigures later writers in showing a city, and by extension a country, resting on past laurels, many of which are illusory, while the foundation rots. His insistence that Orbajosa is neither near nor far from Madrid, that it could be any town in Spain, helps reinforce that extension—by being nowhere in particular it’s everywhere. The local historian shares the following idealized vision of the town with Pepe:

“Thanks to me, it will be clear that Orbajosa is the illustrious cradle of Spanish genius. But what am I saying? Isn’t their illustrious stock already widely recognized in the nobility, the chivalry of the present urbsaugustine generation? We know of few localities where the plants and shrubs of the virtues grow more luxuriantly, free from the noxious weeds of vice. Here all is peace, mutual respect, Christian humility. Charity is practiced here as in the times of the Gospel; here envy is unknown; here criminal passions are unknown, and if you hear talk about thieves and murderers, you may be sure they are not the sons of this noble land, or if so, that they belong to the number of those unfortunates who are led astray by demagogic preachments. You will see here the national character in all its purity—upright, honorable, incorruptible, clean, simple patriarchal, hospitable, generous.” (114-5)

Echoing the battles between Perfecta and Pepe is the conflict between Orbajosa and the Spanish government. Madrid may have earned much of the demonstrated contempt, but the disrespect from Orbajosa has a more organic origin, one that could be applied to conflicts of any nature. Orbajosa “boasted of a kind of rebellious independence, regrettable traces of anarchy which on occasion had caused the governor of the province many headaches. … In spite of its decadence, it still felt from time to time a violent urge to great things, even though they might prove in the end to be follies and barbarous acts. ” (129) These skirmishes echo the war between science and religion. Peasants bewail the audacity of the government while bowing to the authority of religion and the power of emotion. Perfecta plays this perfectly, calling the men of Orbajosa cowards to incite them to violence on moral grounds. Emotion proves more powerful than reason, even to a student of the enlightenment. One of Pepe’s letters to his father explains why he isn’t following his father’s prudent advice, blaming his uncontrolled passions of love and anger. Perfecta and Pepe both believe the problem comes from the other party and their actions are justified in response. A constant theme Galdós reiterates, whether in the lives of these characters or with Spain in general, is that passion trumps reasoning and leads to greater errors and catastrophes. Perfecta’s ‘reasoning’ demonstrates just such an instance: “God will send him his punishment by one of his own admirable means. The only thing we can do is to work to remove any obstacles to God’s designs.” (186) Needless to say, she isn’t just "removing obstacles" but taking an active role in Pepe's fate.

It’s far from Galdós’ best novels but still a wonderful read. As Howells notes in his introduction, Galdós shows an admirable management of the story and its characters. Definitely recommended.

Here are a few extended quotes to expand on some of these notes and give a taste of Galdós’ writing at this stage:

• The priest Inocencio expounds on why he hates the way science is currently being taught. Keep in mind this is from a man that believes the Georgics to be the best guide for agronomy.

  “[S]cience, as it’s studied and taught today by the moderns spells the death of feeling and of pleasant illusions. The life of the spirit falters, everything comes down to fixed rules, and even the sublime enchantments of Nature are dimmed. Science destroys the wonders of the arts as well as faith in the soul. Science says that everything is a lie… The noble reveries of the soul, its mystical rapture, the very inspiration of poets—all lies.” (37-8)

• Galdós uses his characters and situations to speak out against many problems he judges as harmful to Spain, such as the profligate behavior in Madrid. In this excerpt he delves into reasons behind the litigious nature of Spaniards.

  Spain’s worst and most terrible plague is the mob of young men trained in law, whose very existence depends upon a multitude of law-suits. Disputes multiply in proportion to the supply of lawyers. Even so, a great many of them are idle, and since an attorney can’t turn a hand to the plow nor sit down to the loom, the result is that brilliant troupe of loafers, full of pretensions, who are always jockeying for office, disturbing the body politic, working up public opinion, and fomenting revolution. (44)

• Pepe’s writes about Orbajosa as he plans to elope with Rosario, perfectly capturing their religious paranoia and psychological projection (emphasis is mine).

  Here the most antiquated ideas concerning society, religion, the State, and property are generally accepted. The religious fanaticism which impels them to use force against the Government in the defense of a faith which no one has attacked and which they themselves don’t actually possess, revives feudal feelings in their souls; and since they would settle their disputes by brute force and by fire and bloodshed, slaughtering anyone who doesn’t think as they do, they believe that no one in the wide world would use other methods. (215)

• The key to Perfecta turns out to be her hate. Galdós also provides an advance refutation that the novel is anti-religion, at least as he thought it should be practiced.

  Hating, she possessed the fiery vehemence of a guardian angel, of hatred and discord among men. This is the effect of religious fervor on a character which is hard and without native goodness when it draws its lifeblood from narrow dogmas which serve ecclesiastical interests only, instead of nourishing itself on its conscience and the truth revealed in principles as simple as they are beautiful. (222)

• The local historian talks about the clashes between the region and the Spanish government. He doesn’t realize the souls of the people in question have already been despoiled, adding some nice quixotic touches to his complaint.

  I deplore this war which is taking on alarming proportions; but I recognize that our brave peasants are not responsible for it, for they have been provoked to bloody battle by the audacity of the Government, by the demoralization of its sacrilegious delegates, by the systematic fury with which the representatives of the State attack what is most venerated by the conscience of the people—religious faith and pure Hispanicism—which have luckily been preserved in places not yet infected by the devastating pestilence. When an attempt is made to despoil a people of its soul in order to implant another soul; to despoil it of its birthright, let us say, by altering its feelings, its customs, its ideas, it is natural that the people should defend itself like a man on a solitary road when assailed by vicious thieves. (230-1)

(Update: 21 Feb 2014) It's been acknowledged in several places I've seen that Doña Perfecta is based on Galdós own mother. Here's a footnote from the copy of Angel Guerra I'm currently reading (Pérez, Galdós Benito. A Translation of "Angel Guerra" by Benito Pérez Galdós. Lewiston [N.Y.: E. Mellen Press, 1990. Page 78) that provides more information on that point:

The portrait of Doña Sales is almost ertainly based on his mother, referred to by all the family as Mama Dolores. She was a loving but very domineering mother—so much so that the author is almost always known by Galdós (Dolores’ maiden name) rather than Pérez (his father’s name) or Pérez Galdós, as would be correct. Benito was the youngest of ten children, and only managed to give her the slip when she sent him off to study at the University in Madrid in order to separate him from what she considered to be a budding undesirable connection with one Sisita, the illegitimate daughter of an uncle. Once away, he steered fairly clear of the Canaries—and of her. He was close to his family and certainly loved her, but he seems to have felt it wiser to love her from a good safe distance. There is an earlier and far more horrifying depiction of her in the protagonist of Doña Perfecta (1876). The portrait in Angel Guerra is gentler, more disposed to give her credit for her strengths as well as her flaws.

The Shadow by Benito Pérez Galdós

The Shadow
Benito Pérez Galdós
Translated by Karen O. Austin
(Athens, Ohio: Ohio University Press, 1980)

My inadvertent “Galdós in English translation” project continues with his first novel…

The Shadow (La sombra) was written by Galdós in 1866 or 1867 but wasn’t published until 1870 in serial form. It was his first novel and, although I think it stands reasonably well on its own, it suffers in comparison to his later works. Even so there are some nice touches, especially his use of alternating narration providing much of the tension and ambiguity (already!) in this work. Then there’s the quirkiness of the story, including touches of romance and gothic horror, all while making a social statement. But I get ahead of myself.

The (bizarre) story

One should begin at the beginning, that is, by telling the reader just who this don Anselmo is; by telling him of his life, his habits, by speaking of his character and appearance, without omitting the fact that everyone who knew him considered him to be stark raving mad. This opinion was general, unanimous, deeply rooted, and the frequent flashes of genius of that incomparable man, his moments of good sense and eloquence, the affable courtesy with which he lent himself to the telling of the most curious events of life, making discreet use in his narrations of his prodigious imagination, were insufficient to belie it. They said that he did idiotic things, that his life was a series of innumerable follies, and that he became engrossed in strange and incomprehensible pursuits not undertaken by anyone else, in sum, that he was a strange fellow who had never been known to do anything right, the way the rest of us normally do things.

The unnamed narrator of the opening paragraph introduces Anselmo (referred to occasionally as the doctor)as people currently see him. The eccentricity of his dress, manners, and house are described in great detail. The narrator then meets with Anselmo over a couple of evenings and hears his story from years ago.

Anselmo marries a young woman, Elena, and his love for her causes his already unstable senses to feverishly work overtime. He imagines the figure of Paris, from a very sensual painting of Helen of Troy and Paris, disappears from the canvas. He also imagines hearing a male voice in Elena’s room and, upon his approach, what sounds like fleeing footsteps. In a rage, Anselmo breaks open the door to her room. He finds nothing and notices the window is closed and the interior door is locked. The fright to his wife, though, was very real. A second occurrence of hearing voices in his wife's room causes him to intrude again, but this time he thinks he sees a shadow escape though the window. Anselmo follows the shadow into the garden. Thinking he sees the figure hiding in the well he spends all evening filling it up with rocks. Anselmo feels tortured by betrayal, but a few days later in his bedroom the shadow takes corporeal form as Paris from the painting. They hold conversations that depress the doctor, driving him mad with the realization that he will never shake such a being, so he challenges Paris to a duel. Even though Anselmo’s shot would be deadly to a mortal, Paris lives. Anselmo has the being brought to his bedroom and they continue to hold conversations, heightening the husband’s shame at the loss of his honor.

Anselmo then reveals that his damaged honor may have a real basis—a young man, Alejandro, who lives for seducing women. While Elena’s family knows of Alejandro’s visits, they believe her part in the "affair" to be innocent. The gossip in town, though, tells a different story. Anselmo’s mental stability disintegrates and his treatment of Elena causes her health to deteriorate. Eventually she dies and Paris disappears, although the question of his reappearance in the painting is left unanswered.

Narration

The story, bizarre as it is, is enhanced by Galdós’ way of working the narration. As seen in the opening paragraph the unnamed narrator paints an unflattering picture of Anselmo, although the emphasis at this point is on what others say about him. The narrator gives a detailed description of Anselmo’s apartment, highlighting the peculiar nature of its contents. Once the narrator begins to recount his recent conversations with the doctor in that apartment, his certainty of Anselmo’s lunacy is confirmed in his asides and comments. As Anselmo continues the story he begins to control the commentary. With less asides and contradictory statements from the narrator, Anselmo’s narration becomes more believable. The duel and the talks with Paris seem more creditable as the reader sees the impact they had on the doctor.

A funny thing happens when Anselmo reveals the existence of Alejandro—the narrator puts the pieces together in a plausible fashion and believes more of the doctor’s tale. Anselmo, on the other hand, raises doubts and reasons that events couldn’t have taken place as he relates them, noting his unstable mental state several times. The narrator, on the other hand, interprets events as they could have happened and provides a link to reality:

”Well, if I’m to speak frankly, my friend Don Anselmo,” I said, “that adventure, far from becoming clearer as the end approaches, is becoming more complicated and darker. At the beginning, when the figure of Paris appeared to you in your room, the case could be considered a creation of your imagination, a mental aberration. Although rare, there are cases in which a sick imagination produces those phenomena that have no external reality, but exist only within the individual who produces them. The figure that disappeared from the canvas, the voice you thought you heard in Elena’s room, the shadow you saw hiding in the wall, all that can be explained by an obsession that, though rare, is not impossible. But afterwards it turns out that there is a real being, one Alejandro, a person visible to everyone and who frequents your house; a person exactly like the intrusive shadow and who seems determined to upset marital peace, not by any fantastic means, but by real ones, as can be deduced by your dialogue with your mother-in-law and your friend. What do we agree on? What relationship is there between Paris and Alejandro? By a coincidence I do not think accidental, these are the two names of Helen’s ravisher in the heroic fable.”

The narrator’s increasing certainty becomes as doubtful to the reader as Anselmo’s earlier fantastic tale, in no small part due to the increasing reliance on Anselmo’s stories. It doesn't help that Anselmo increases uncertainty on what really happened by doubting his own story. The reader will also note that the narrator experiences effects mimicking those described by Anselmo, undermining the fantastic nature the narrator ascribes to them. For example, one of the narrator’s visits to Anselmo’s study/laboratory causes a terror when it seems weird objects come to life, something similar to the living shadows the doctor experienced.

At the end of the tale the narrator chides Anselmo for not telling the story in a logical manner. Anselmo agrees, explaining the reason for his method in telling his story personifying his (perceived) loss of honor:

”Exactly,” replied the doctor; “except that I, to give my adventure more truth, I recount it as it happened to me, which is to say, backwards. A complete disorganization took place in my head; and so, when the first of my hallucinations occurred, I didn’t remember the background of that painful mental illness.”

So storytelling can be manipulated in order to give a story more truth? Galdós provides in his first novel an approach that would underlie his lengthy career.

Tristana by Benito Pérez Galdós

Tristana: Buñuel’s Film and Galdós’ Novel: A Case Study in the Relation Between Literature and Film by Colin Partridge (New York: The Edwin Mellen Press, 1995)

OK, finally wrapping up Tristana…

Colin Partridge has provided a valuable service for anyone interested in an English translation of Galdós’ novel. Tristana is a wonderful book full of Galdosian ambiguity and irony. Its original reception, though was underwhelming. From Partridge’s essay on the novel:

Tristana reflects therefore reflects a moral and social dilemma: the novel points in one direction to explorative personal ambitions and in another to the traditional attitudes and behaviors structuring Spanish society. Its ambivalences probably contributed to its neglect. The author himself appeared to dismiss the work; and there is evidence from the manuscript that his creative imagination was being drawn away from the text in the latter stages of its composition towards the dramatization of Realidad [an earlier Galdós novel that he was adapting for the stage]; he used the manuscript of Tristana to make notes for Realidad which was to be staged in Madrid in March 1892, less than two months after the publication of Tristana. However, the novel gained a level of popular appeal in the deades following Galdós’ death in 1920, but attracted little critical attention.

The novel follows the trials and tribulations of the youthful, orphaned Tristana and the two lovers in her life. The first lover is her guardian, Don Lepe, an aging Don Juan who couldn’t resist one last conquest. The second lover is Horacio, a painter with a similar background as Tristana. The ever-changing dynamics provide the ambiguities and ironies that take it well beyond a simple statement on feminism in the late 1800s Spain. As Partridge describes it (and I’m only slightly paraphrasing him), the novel is a somber comedy, an oral narration offering a wry commentary on human efforts to establish humane relationships, and a problem play questioning gender-based social values.

Something that struck me as I read the novel, and Partridge notes as well, is that each of these three characters is a rebel, or at least claims to be, of one sort or another. Don Lope holds himself outside of social institutions, whether of man or God, although he changes his attitude in old age and poverty. Tristana asserts her right to education despite her inability to focus on any one art for an extended period. She tires of these explorations after the amputation of her leg and, similar to Don Lope, the promise of security. Horacio’s bohemian lifestyle falls by the wayside as he discovers the pleasures of a rustic lifestyle and realizes his desire for marriage (and, presumed, fatherhood). Everyone falls in line with the existing power structure, but Tristana is the only one that doesn’t have an option without sinking into further dissipation. Her choices are restricted, although one of the ‘acceptable’ options—actress—she expresses an interest in and demonstrates an aptitude for, then abandons.

The initial evaluations of Tristana as highlighted in this post reflect the struggles by and disappointments in Galdós. He had been working for social improvements through his writings but little or nothing was being done. He wrote a disturbing tale that ends in disappointment for the reader even though the characters seem happy, making the novel more effective. Highly recommended. The book benefits from the two essays by Partridge, one on the novel, one on Buñuel's movie.

Posts on the novel:
Far from the desired feminist manifesto
Don Lepe
Tristana
Horacio
A Fortunata and Jacinta quote that fits in nicely with Tristana

Notes on the 1970 movie directed by Luis Buñuel

Update (4 March 2015): Notes on the recent NYRB edition, translated by Margaret Jull Costa

Tristana: 1970 movie (Spain)

Tristana (1970) directed by Luis Buñuel
IMDb.com page for the movie

Fernando Rey: Don Lope
Catherine Deneuve: Tristana
Franco Nero: Horacio
Lola Gaos: Saturna
Jesús Fernández: Saturno

Tristana was one of the few movies adapted from a novel that I watched before reading the book. After reading the novel I’m more impressed with what Buñuel accomplished, keeping the general outline of the narrative while making rather dramatic changes to add power to the story. As usual, I will focus mostly on comparing the movie and the novel. The general outline of the two are roughly the same: Tristana’s mother dies and leaves Tristana as ward to the libertine Don Lepe. The old lecher has a perverse sense of chivalry that has become anachronistic. Unable to resist Tristana’s beauty Don Lepe adds her to his list of sexual conquests. Tristana meets and falls in love with the painter Horacio, but a tumor causes the amputation of one of her legs. Horacio effectively marginalizes himself and Tristana marries Don Lepe.

One of the biggest changes to the story is the setting. Galdós’ novel is set indefinitely in the late 1800s in a suburb of Madrid. Buñuel moves the timeframe to the late 1920s/early 1930s in Toledo. The tight, winding streets of Toledo provide a different feel than the spaciousness of the novel. Underscoring one of Galdós’ points, though, is how little has changed in the intervening 50 years. Another major change is the expansion in roles for Saturna, the housekeeper, and Saturno, her son. Saturno is barely mentioned in the novel but is given a significant role almost completely created from nothing. Buñuel makes Saturno a deaf-mute, set apart from society in a mirroring of Tristana’s exclusion as a dependant woman and foreshadowing her debility. Only when he become a house servant does he seem to find a place in society. Saturno’s inconsequential sexual pranks on Tristana appear as a weakened predatory version of Don Lepe. Saturna proves to be a more complicated character in the movie. In the novel she follows along with Don Lepe’s dictatorial rule of the household, weakly standing up to him once. In the movie Saturna provides much the same function in the house but takes a more active role in defying Don Lepe when helping Tristana see Horacio.

There are many other changes that add to the story even though the movie follows the same framework. In the novel Horacio leaves Madrid to take care of his ailing aunt. The movie has Horacio and Tristana leaving Toledo together for two years. Tristana’s tumor is the cause for them returning. In bringing Tristana back to Don Lope as she requested, Horacio earns her scorn and loses her. Horacio fails her sh&t test: “If you loved me you wouldn’t have brought me to this house. Don Lope would never have brought me to another man’s house.” Prior to leaving Toledo, Don Lope had slapped Horacio in the face with his gloves, following his anachronistic respect for the duel. In reply Horacio punches Don Lope in the face, his high-water mark for manliness. Horacio diminishes on the screen after their return and quietly disappears. There’s no mention of him marrying, as in the novel, nor is there need to—his betrayal was bringing Tristana back to Don Lope.

In the novel Don Lope’s relatives bribe him to marry Tristana, promising much needed money after their relationship is legitimate. The two marry and settle down, approaching something that looks like happiness together. In the movie, though, Don Lope inherits money while Horacio and Tristana are away, allowing him to reacquire everything he had sold or pawned for funds. The difference between the two is marked—in the movie Don Lope and Tristana do not have to marry in order to acquire the much needed funds, making Tristana’s agreement to marry Don Lope that much more ambiguous. But then her development is not based on the arts as much in the movie, focusing instead on her emerging sexuality and her desire for control and vengeance. From Colin Partridge’s essay on the film in Tristana: Buñuel’s Film and Galdós’ Novel: A Case Study in the Relation Between Literature and Film (New York: The Edwin Mellen Press, 1995):

In Catherine Deneuve’s portrayal Tristana adapts from the pleasing charm of a schoolgirl with plaits to the anguished determination of a woman marred by a sense of injustice. In the novel Don Lope was the supreme manipulator; in the film, as he loses control over events, Tristana’s grasp inexorably tightens. In the six years of the film’s action she grows to maturity until, finally, only she has the strength and insight to exercise power over the household and over the local elite society which Don Lope’s improved finances have opened to her. In the process of her development, she becomes an incarnation of female power holding together impossible contradictions born of psychological bitterness rather than physical disability. Buñuel’s subtle direction draws Tristana from background to foreground in scene after scene until, in the closing scenes of the last sequence, she dominates the screen—clumping on her crutches along the corridor of the country house, and finally moving as rapidly as her condition allows from Don Lope’s bed to a telephone and then back to open the bedroom windows.

Buñuel adds accents to Don Lope’s aging and descent into dotage. Similar to Álvaro Mesía in La Regenta, it’s implied that sex with the younger woman speeds his decline. After sexual relations end between Don Lope and Tristana, though, he inherits money and it reinvigorates him. The improvement is temporary and the view of the self-proclaimed heretic nattering with priests emphasizes how much he has changed. The movie adds the death of Don Lope with Tristana making one last important choice—whether or not to call the doctor. While the death is one of the final scenes in the movie, it underscores Tristana’s control of the situation. She tells Saturna early in the movie about her ability to discriminate between two choices and as the movie progresses her decisions exert more authority and influence.

An exceptional movie, both in the writing and in the acting. The ambiguity and irony in Galdós is a perfect fit for Buñuel’s style.

(Update: 21 Feb 2014): I just found this essay by Jeremy of the Readin blog. While mostly about Buñuel's career and accomplishments, there is a sizable portion on Tristana.

Tristana by Benito Pérez Galdós: Bonus Fortunata and Jacinta quote and comments

Tristana: Buñuel’s Film and Galdós’ Novel: A Case Study in the Relation Between Literature and Film by Colin Partridge (New York: The Edwin Mellen Press, 1995)

In reading though Colin Partridge’s essay on the novel Tristana I found a quote from Fortunata and Jacinta that I had marked as important when I read it but somehow excluded it in the many posts on that novel. I'm fixing that now. Lucky you. But it’s an important insight into the philosophy in Galdós’novels, contained in what looks like a throwaway line or one easy to miss in a massive novel. From near the end of Volume Three / Chapter 5 (Another Restoration), pages 543-544 in my version with translation by Agnes Moncy Gullón:

Forunata saw Sr. Feijóo very infrequently now; he came to pay ceremonious visits and stayed for about an hour, talking more with Señora Járegui than with Señora Rubín. The pleasant old man appeared to be happy, but his health was failing; by April he never left home without a servant. On one of his visits he was alone with his friend [Fortunata] and spoke to her in such a fatherly way that she almost burst into tears. Everything was going quite well and he presumed that “his chulita” had had time to appreciate his lessons and advice. Feijóo’s friendship displeased Maxi, although he couldn’t have said exactly why. But the strangest part was that after a month or so of this new life, even Fortunata began to enjoy Don Evaristo’s visits less. She continued to feel the same gratitude and affection for him, but she couldn’t help considering the presence of her former protector in that house a monstrosity. “Could it really be,” she wondered, “like what he said—that life is full of these unbelievable horrors! Just think—this is what it’s like! There’s the world you see and then there’s another one, hidden underneath…and the inside is making the outside the way it is. Well, I guess it makes sense after all, it’s not the face of the clock that runs, but what’s inside—what you can’t see.” [emphasis mine]

As Partridge puts it in his essay about Galdós’ writing, “At least two forces are always in conflict, shaping individual consciousness and making each person a part of the world he or she perceives.” There’s nothing earth-shattering in Galdós’ approach but he’s consistent in its application, which makes for plenty of fun reading.

Tristana by Benito Pérez Galdós: Horacio Díaz, the disappointment

Tristana: Buñuel’s Film and Galdós’ Novel: A Case Study in the Relation Between Literature and Film by Colin Partridge (New York: The Edwin Mellen Press, 1995)

In a novel full of ambiguity, Tristana’s lover Horacio is the one certainty. He’s a disappointment.

I should expand on that judgment and qualify it where appropriate. Horacio’s early years resemble Tristana’s background. Orphaned in his youth he became confined by his grandfather. Then Horacio’s story diverges from Tristana’s experience—his grandfather dies and he achieves financial security, allowing him to pursue his love of painting. Horacio playacts at a bohemian life. An early clue that Horatio doesn’t measure up as an artist comes from the distraction Tristana provides. He may call her his muse but he is so preoccupied with her that he abandons his work. The turning point in his relationship with Tristana is not when he leaves to take care of his aunt but in their discussion about children. Tristana turns out to be the real non-conformist of the pair. When taking care of his aunt he finds he enjoys the rustic lifestyle. And as Colin Partridge puts it in his essay on the novel:

His absorption into southern country life dramatizes the collapse of the delicate balance between artist and bohemian that he had maintained in the Madrid suburb. Although first presented as an urban dweller he is, as his name infers, one who prefers rustic pleasures to urban stresses. But unlike his Roman namesake he withdraws to the countryside without having first fulfilled himself as a celebrated artist in the capital.

In addition to Tristana being a problem drama, Galdós indicts a passive artistic community for posing instead of helping revitalize a backward, moribund society. Horacio betrays Tristana’s hopes as much as Don Lope does. Some of that betrayal comes from her immaturity—as Tristana develops she begins to see Horacio’s thoughts as coarse and common. As for her hopes to have an equal partner in her rebelliousness, Horacio falls short.

I’d like to include a few quotes from the novel that highlight the differences between what Horacio had been looking for and what he found in Tristana. The first quote shows that Horacio may talk about the “thorny problem of the liberated woman” but isn’t ready for a solution:

These artistic sentiments, these fanciful flights of a superior feminine intelligence, delighted the young fellow; and not long after they started having intimate relations, he began to see the infatuated young woman growing visibly before his eyes, while he seemed to diminish in importance. This really surprised him; and he found himself on the verge of opposing her, because he had imagined he’d found in Tristana a woman who was of lesser intelligence and weaker willpower, a wife who would live on her husband’s moral and intellectual life and feel with his eyes and his heart. But in reality this young woman was taking her own course, throwing herself into the free spaces of thought and revealing the most remarkable aspirations.

The last quote shows his distraction from painting caused by his love for Tristana, but also focuses on the conventional role he wishes she would play:

It must be admitted that the bouts of amorous excesses our artist of the ideal experienced at those times distracted him from his noble profession. He painted little and always without a model; he began to feel the remorse of the conscientious worker, the anguish before unfinished pictures waiting for form and structure; but between art and love he preferred the latter. It was new and aroused the most delightful sensations; it was a recently-discovered, fertile, exuberant, extremely rich world he could take possession of by advancing resolutely and planting his foot as explorer and conquistador. Art would wait for the time being; he would come back to it when his burning desires had calmed down; then love would appear more peaceful, akin to quiet colonization rather than frantic conquest. This good fellow sincerely believed that Tristana was the love of his life, that no other woman could attract him or ever replace the delight-provoking, generous Tristana. He liked to imagine that time would soothe her fever for ideas; such a flow of penetrating thoughts seemed to him excessive in a wife or long-term mistress. He hoped that his continuing affection and the passing of time would eventually restrain his adored one’s imaginative and rational outbursts, making her more of a woman—more domestic, more conventional and more typical of the present-day.

Tristana by Benito Pérez Galdós: Tristana

Tristana: Buñuel’s Film and Galdós’ Novel: A Case Study in the Relation Between Literature and Film by Colin Partridge (New York: The Edwin Mellen Press, 1995). All quotes are from Partridge’s translation of the text unless otherwise noted.

I'm realizing how poorly thought out my approach was on writing about Tristana, but I’m halfway through it…so I’m continuing with that plan. I’m hoping once I’ve finished all the posts is that it will make a decent whole. We’ll see…

A summary of the story can be found in the post on Don Lope, Tristana’s guardian. This post continues looking at the characters in Benito Pérez Galdós’ Tristana and also tries to make a natural continuation to the previous post on the novel promoting women's rights even though it wasn't the desired manifesto desired by some.

I’ll start with a paragraph from the essays by Colin Partridge since it sums up Tristana’s situation and role in the novel, raising the point that there are similarities with other characters in Galdós' works:

Although Tristana is the center of events she is never allowed to have a dominant influence over other characters. Circumstances shape her; she has little power to shape circumstances. These limitations symbolize a woman who, in the social reality of her time, possessed domestic power within a patriarchal household but was allowed no initiative outside the home or in any action dedicated solely to self-fulfillment. Tristana is comparable to other Galdosian figures dreaming of a life outside present constraints but unable to reach that life or achieve a stable balance between the actual and its alternatives. The psychological condition provoked by this frustration is the focus of Galdós’ presentation of Tristana.

Galdós often uses names to highlight a point or provide irony and Tristana is no exception. Triste mean gloom or sadness, the station in life she is consigned to after her parents die and she becomes Don Lope’s ward…and victim. “Tristana went to live with Don Lope and…(one must say this, although it sounds cruel and painful), within two months of taking her under his care, her name was added to his already extensive list of victories over female innocence.” [ellipsis in original] The name also alludes to the mythical Tristan and his doomed love affair with Iseult/Isolde, providing a foreshadowing of Tristana’s failed relationship with Horacio.

Some notes on Tristana’s relationship with Don Lope:

• His perverted chivalric code colors his view of his relationship with Tristana. He believes he is protecting her, keeping her from danger from other men. 
• She initially doesn’t notice the difference in their ages because of her innocence and his skill.” Her inadequate schooling seriously weakened her; and all sorts of devious manipulations, in which this foxy Don Lope was a past master, kept her confused and at a loss; he was compensating for what years had taken from him by subtle tricks with words and tender gestures—all remarkably effective.” 
• His wiles are tested as Tristana becomes disillusioned in the household and her own sexuality awakens when she meets the painter Horacio. When describing Don Lope to Horacio, Tristana proves to be extremely perceptive about the contradictions in him:

  “No; he’s a bit of everything: he’s an amazing combination of good qualities and horrible deficiencies. He has two consciences: one very pure and noble for certain things, and another like a swamp. He uses each depending on the situation. He can put them on and take them off like shirts. He uses his black and filthy conscience for anything pertaining to love. … In his youth he cut a dashing figure and until very recently he’s kept up the illusion of being dangerous. You realize that his conquests have diminished in importance as the years have added up. I was the last ticket he drew out from the lottery. I belong to his declining years.”

• As Tristana's abhorrence for Don Lope grows, he cajoles and threatens her, essentially driving her into Horacio’s arms and, eventually, Horacio’s bed. 
• One of the funniest ironies in the novel is that Tristana takes on some of Don Lepe’s beliefs, especially his avoidance of marriage. 

With Horacio, Tristana becomes both his muse and, ironically, his distraction (more on that in the post on Horacio). The lovers develop a language based on Dante with Tristana in the role of Beatrice. The irony compounds because of her relationship with Don Lope. Similar to Dante, Tristana elevates Horacio to a role akin to a deity, something the painter could never live up to. This elevation would have occurred, to some extent, while Tristana is under Don Lope’s rule, but it becomes more important when the lovers are apart—absence made the veneration easier. Although Tristana lays out her beliefs and desires several times, here is a succinct summary of a significant part of them in one of her letters to Horacio:

“The more I think about the problem of my life the more it overwhelms me. I want to be somebody in the world, to cultivate an art, to live on my own resources. But discouragement floods over me. Is it true, dear God, that I want the impossible? I want to have a profession and yet I have no training, I don’t know how to do anything. It’s a terrible situation.

“I don’t want to be dependent on anyone, not even on the man I adore. I don’t want to be kept by him—a disgraced being—a female orifice kept by several men because they get pleasure from it, as they would from a hunting dog; and I don’t even want the man of my dreams to become my husband. I see no happiness in marriage. I yearn to express myself in my own way, to be married to myself, and to be the head of my own family. I don’t know how to love from duty; only in total freedom can I show my lifelong fidelity and my daily loyalty.”

The arts appeal to Tristana—painting, books, acting, teaching, music—and she seems to be a suitable student. Except for learning the piano, though, she fails to apply herself for an extended period of time. Combined with her floundering comes her disillusionment with Horacio, which was bound to happen given her deification of him—there is no way he could live up to her vision of him (even before his changes) :

This was not the man who, having been blotted from her memory by distance, her creative imagination had laboriously reconstructed. Now he seemed a rather coarse, ordinary individual, with a face that lacked any appearance of intelligence… .

With all the powers aligned against Tristana and her own weaknesses, it’s no wonder she gives in to the powers controlling or influencing her. She declares, when trying to walk on crutches, “I can only resign myself to the inevitable!” It seems to encompass her resignation beyond her physical limitations. One last quote from Partridge, whose essay provides great summaries on the characters:

As a character Tristana evokes pathos as a continually violated victim; although she never physically escapes from the manipulations of her elderly guardian, youthful lover, pretentious teacher and defeatist environment, mentally and spiritually she creates other realities to turn to; sadly her journeys into an ever-deepening loneliness to become one of the most forlorn and isolated females in the history of the novel. … Although Galdós was always sympathetic to women suffering from social constraints…he did not make Tristana a vessel of emergent feminine consciousness. Tristana was too inexperienced, too naïve, too idealistic; and the forces opposing her were too many and too pervasive.

It’s a powerful novel, speaking more to disappointment in a society that isn’t more open in offering educational/social possibilities for a woman wishing to develop and contribute.