Free Tristana by Benito Pérez Galdós

or the lion.”
    As they drew near the water tower, they saw, plunged in lonely gloom, the massive bulk of the carousel, where the wooden horses stood poised with their galloping legs outstretched as if bewitched. The strange shapes of the seesaws and the roller coaster loomed out of the darkness. Since there was no one else about, Tristana and Horacio would briefly monopolize those large toys intended for children, for they, too, were children. Not that far away, they could see the outline of the old water tower, surrounded by dense trees and, over toward the street, the lights of the tram or the passing carriages or some open-air café from which emanated the argumentative voices of a few lingering customers. There among that humble architecture, surrounded by rickety benches and rustic tables, Saturna would be waiting for them, and there they parted, sometimes as sadly and tragically as if Horacio were setting off to the ends of the earth or Tristana were bidding a last farewell before entering a convent. Finally, finally, after many attempts, they managed to part and go their separate ways, still looking back, still just able to make each other out in the gloom of night.

10
    NOW THAT she was in love, Tristana, to use her own words, feared neither the hefty oxen or the horned serpent or the fierce Atlas lion, but she was afraid of Don Lope, seeing him as a monster so large that he made all the wild, dangerous beasts of creation seem small. Analyzing her fear, though, she judged it to be such that it could, at any given moment, change into blind, bold valor. The differences between captive and tyrant grew more marked by the day. Don Lope reached new heights of impertinence and although, in agreement with Saturna, Tristana concealed from him her evening sorties, when the old gallant said to her, grim-faced, “You’re going out, Tristana, I know you are, I can see it on your face,” she at first denied it, but then acknowledged it with her disdainful silence. One day, she dared to answer back, “What if I am going out, what of it? Am I to remain shut up in the house for the rest of my life?”
    Don Lope gave vent to his rage with threats and curses, and then, half angry, half mocking, said, “Because if you do go out, I can just imagine you being pestered by some good-for-nothing, some carrier of the Bsacillus virgula of love, the sole fruit of this feeble generation, and the nonsense he might spout could quite simply turn your head. I wouldn’t forgive you, my girl. If you’re going to be unfaithful to me, at least let it be with a man worthy of me. But then where would you find such a worthy rival? Nowhere! Such a man has not yet been born, nor will be. Indeed, even you must admit that I am not so easily supplanted. Oh, come here, enough of your airs and graces. Do you really think that I don’t love you any more? How I would miss you were you to leave me! Out there, you’ll find only men of quite staggering insipidness. Come, let us make our peace. Forgive me if I doubted you. You would never deceive me. You’re a superior woman, who appreciates the value of people and . . .”
    Whatever words Don Lope uttered, whether placatory or angry, they only succeeded in arousing in his captive a deep, unspoken hatred, that sometimes disguised itself as scorn and, at others, as repugnance. She found his company so horribly tedious that she would count the minutes until she could leave and go out into the street. She was terrified that he might fall ill, because then she would not be able to go out. Good God, and what would become of her if she were thus imprisoned, if she couldn’t . . . ? No, that was impossible. She would have her evening walk even if Don Lope fell ill or died. At night, Tristana nearly always feigned a headache so that she could escape early from the sight and the odious caresses of that now decrepit Don Juan.
    When alone with her passion and her conscience, she would say to herself, “The strange