matilda

The reader of books.

It's a funny thing about mothers and fathers. Even when their own child is the most disgusting little blister you could ever imagine, they still think that he or she is wonderfull. Some parents go further. They become so blinded by adoration they manage to convince themselves their child has qualities of genious. 

Well, there is nothing very wrong all this. It's the way of the world. It is only when the parents begin telling us about the brilliance of their own revolting offspring, that we start shouting "Bring us a basin! We're going to be sick!"

School teachers suffer a good deal from having to listen to this sort of twaddle from proud parents, but they usually get their own back when the time comes to write the end-of-term reports. If I were a teacher, I would cook up some real scorchers for the children of doting parents.  "Your son Maximilian" I would write, "is a total wash-out. I hope you have a family business you can push him into when he leaves school because he sure as heck won't get a job anywhere else." Or if I were feeling lyrical that day, I might write, "It's a curious truth the grasshoppers have their hearing-organs in the sides of abdomen. Your daughter Vanessa judging by what she's learnt this term, has no hearing-organs at all."

I might even delve deeper into natural history and say, "The periodical cicada spend six years as a grub underground, and no more than six days as a free creature of sunlight and air. Your son Wilfred  has spent six years as a grub in this school and we are still waiting for him to emerge from the chrysalis." A particulary poisonous little girl might sting me to saying , "Fiona has the same glacial beauty as an iceberg, but unlike the iceberg she has absolutely nothing below the surface." I think I might enjoy writing end-of-term reports for the stinkers in my class. But enough of that. We have to get on. 

Occasionally one comes across parents who take the opposite line, who show no interest at all in their children, and these of course are far worse than the doting ones. Mr and Mrs Wormwood were two such parents. They had a son called Michael and a daughter called Matilda, and the parents looked upon Matilda in particular as nothing more than a scab. A scab is something you have to put up with until the time comes when you can pick it off and flick it away. Mr and Mrs Wormwood looked forward enormously to the time when they could pick their little daughter off and flick her away, preferably into the next county or even further than that. 

It is bad enough when parents treat ordinary children as though they were scabs and bunions, but it becomes somehow a lot worse when the child in question is extraordinary, and by that I mean sensitive and brilliant. Matilda was both of these things, but above all she was brilliant.

Matilda

 Roald Dahl

Publicada orixinalmente por Jonathan Cape en Londres, 1988. Con ilustracións de Quentin Blake.

Traducida ao galego por:

X. Miguel Barros Taboada

 E publicada como:

Matilda

Santiago de Compostela, editorial Alfaguara (Obradoiro), 1989

A lectora de libros.

Pasa unha cousa moi graciosa coas nais e cos pais. Inda que o seu fillo sexa o ser máis repugnante que un poida imaxinar, cren que é maravilloso.

Algúns pais inda van máis lonxe. A súa adoración chega a cegalos, e están convencidos de que o seu tesouro ten calidades de xenio.

Ben… tampouco ten nada de malo. A xente é así. Só cando os pais empezan a falarnos das marabillas da súa descendencia é cando berramos: “Tráianme unha almofiña! Vou devolver!”.

Os Mestres pásano moi mal tendo que escoitar estas parvadas de pais orgullosos, pero normalmente desquítanse cando chega a hora das notas finais do curso. Se eu fose mestre idearía orixinais comentarios para fillos de pais imbéciles. “O seu fillo Maximilian”, escribiría, “é un auténtico desastre. Espero que teñan vostedes algún negocio familiar cara ao que o poidan orientar cando remate a escola, porque é seguro como hai inferno, que non encontraría un traballo en sitio ningún”. Ou, se me sentise inspirado ese día, podería poñer: “Os saltóns, curiosamente teñen os órganos auditivos a ambos os dous lados do abdome. A súa filla Vanessa, a xulgar polo que aprendeu neste curso, non ten órganos auditivos”.

Podería,  incluso, rebuscar máis profundamente na historia natural e escribir: “A chicharra pasa seis anos baixo terra como larva e, como moito, seis días como animal libre á luz do sol e ao aire. O seu fillo Wilfred pasou seis anos como larva nesta escola e inda estamos esperando que saia da crisálida”. Unha nena especialmente odiosa quizais me incitase a dicir: “Fiona ten a mesma beleza glacial que un iceberg; pero, ao contrario do que sucede con este, non ten nada debaixo da superficie”. Estou seguro de que gozaría escribindo os informes de fin de curso dos malandríns da miña clase. Pero disto xa abonda. Temos que seguir.

Ás veces tópase un con pais que se comportan de xeito totalmente oposto. Pais que non demostran o máis mínimo interese polos seus fillos e que, naturalmente, son moito peores ca os que senten un cariño delirante. O señor e a señora Wormwood eran deses. Tiñan un fillo, Michael, e unha filla, Matilda. Á nena, os pais considerábana pouco máis ca unha bostela. Unha bostela é algo que un ten que soportar ata que chega o momento de arrincala e botala lonxe. O señor e a señora Wormwood esperaban con ansiedade o momento de quitar de encima á meniña e botala lonxe, a ser posible a algunha vila dos arredores ou, incluso, inda máis lonxe.

Xa é malo que haxa pais que traten aos nenos normais como bostelas e xoanetes, pero é moito peor cando o neno en cuestión é extraordinario, e con isto refírome a cando e sensible e brillante. Matilda era ambas as dúas cousas, pero sobre todo, brillante.