The Reign of Greed
steam hiss, the trains roar, the engines rattle! I see the smoke
rise—their heavy breathing; I smell the oil—the sweat of monsters busy
at incessant toil. This port, so slow and laborious of creation, this
river where commerce is in its death agony, we shall see covered with
masts, giving us an idea of the forests of Europe in winter. This pure
air, and these stones, now so clean, will be crowded with coal, with
boxes and barrels, the products of human industry, but let it not
matter, for we shall move about rapidly in comfortable coaches to seek
in the interior other air, other scenes on other shores, cooler
temperatures on the slopes of the mountains. The warships of our navy
will guard our coasts, the Spaniard and the Filipino will rival each
other in zeal to repel all foreign invasion, to defend our homes, and
let you bask in peace and smiles, loved and respected. Free from the
system of exploitation, without hatred or distrust, the people will
labor because then labor will cease to be a despicable thing, it will
no longer be servile, imposed upon a slave. Then the Spaniard will not
embitter his character with ridiculous pretensions of despotism, but
with a frank look and a stout heart we shall extend our hands to one
another, and commerce, industry, agriculture, the sciences, will
develop under the mantle of liberty, with wise and just laws, as in
prosperous England.” [53]
Paulita smiled dubiously and shook her head. “Dreams, dreams!” she
sighed. “I’ve heard it said that you have many enemies. Aunt says that
this country must always be enslaved.”
“Because your aunt is a fool, because she can’t live without slaves!
When she hasn’t them she dreams of them in the future, and if they are
not obtainable she forces them into her imagination. True it is that we
have enemies, that there will be a struggle, but we shall conquer. The
old system may convert the ruins of its castle into formless
barricades, but we will take them singing hymns of liberty, in the
light of the eyes of you women, to the applause of your lovely hands.
But do not be uneasy—the struggle will be a pacific one. Enough that
you spur us to zeal, that you awake in us noble and elevated thoughts
and encourage us to constancy, to heroism, with your affection for our
reward.”
Paulita preserved her enigmatic smile and seemed thoughtful, as she
gazed toward the river, patting her cheek lightly with her fan. “But if
you accomplish nothing?” she asked abstractedly.
The question hurt Isagani. He fixed his eyes on his sweetheart, caught
her lightly by the hand, and began: “Listen, if we accomplish nothing—”
He paused in doubt, then resumed: “You know how I love you, how I adore
you, you know that I feel myself a different creature when your gaze
enfolds me, when I surprise in it the flash of love, but yet if we
accomplish nothing, I would dream of another look of yours and would
die happy, because the light of pride could burn in your eyes when you
pointed to my corpse and said to the world: ‘My love died fighting for
the rights of my fatherland!’ ”
“Come home, child, you’re going to catch cold,” screeched Doña
Victorina at that instant, and the voice brought them back to reality.
It was time to return, and they kindly invited him to enter the
carriage, an invitation which the young man did not give them cause to
repeat. As it was Paulita’s carriage, naturally Doña Victorina and the
friend occupied the back seat, while the two lovers sat on the smaller
one in front.
To ride in the same carriage, to have her at his side, to breathe her
perfume, to rub against the silk of her dress, to see her pensive with
folded arms, lighted by the moon of the Philippines that lends to the
meanest things idealism and enchantment, were all dreams beyond
Isagani’s hopes! What wretches they who were returning alone on foot
and had to give way to the swift carriage! In the whole course of the
drive, along the beach and down the length of La Sabana, across the
Bridge of Spain, Isagani saw nothing but a sweet profile, gracefully
set off by beautiful hair, ending in an arching neck that lost itself
amid the gauzy piña. A diamond winked at him from the lobe of the
little ear, like a star among silvery clouds. He heard faint echoes
inquiring for Don Tiburcio de Espadaña, the name of Juanito Pelaez, but
they sounded to him like distant bells, the confused noises heard in a
dream. It was necessary to tell him that they had reached Plaza Santa
Cruz.
CHAPTER XXV
SMILES AND TEARS
The sala of the Pansiteria Macanista de Buen Gusto [54] that night
presented an extraordinary aspect. Fourteen young men of the principal
islands of the archipelago, from the pure Indian (if there be pure
ones) to the Peninsular Spaniard, were met to hold the banquet advised
by Padre Irene in view of the happy solution of the affair about
instruction in Castilian. They had engaged all the tables for
themselves, ordered the lights to be increased, and had posted on the
wall beside the landscapes and Chinese kakemonos this strange versicle:
“GLORY TO CUSTODIO FOR HIS CLEVERNESS AND PANSIT ON EABTH TO THE YOUTHS
OF GOOD WILL.”
In a country where everything grotesque is covered with a mantle of
seriousness, where many rise by the force of wind and hot air, in a
country where the deeply serious and sincere may do damage on issuing
from the heart and may cause trouble, probably this was the best way to
celebrate the ingenious inspiration of the illustrious Don Custodio.
The mocked replied to the mockery with a laugh, to the governmental
joke with a plate of pansit, and yet—!
They laughed and jested, but it could be seen that the merriment was
forced. The laughter had a certain nervous ring, eyes flashed, and in
more than one of these a tear glistened. Nevertheless, these young men
were cruel, they were unreasonable! It was not the first time that
their most beautiful ideas had been so treated, that their hopes had
been defrauded with big words and small actions: before this Don
Custodio there had been many, very many others.
In the center of the room under the red lanterns were placed four round
tables, systematically arranged to form a square. Little wooden stools,
equally round, served as seats. In the middle of each table, according
to the practise of the establishment, were arranged four small colored
plates with four pies on each one and four cups of tea, with the
accompanying dishes, all of red porcelain. Before each seat was a
bottle and two glittering wine-glasses.
Sandoval was curious and gazed about scrutinizing everything, tasting
the food, examining the pictures, reading the bill of fare. The others
conversed on the topics of the day: about the French actresses, about
the mysterious illness of Simoun, who, according to some, had been
found wounded in the street, while others averred that he had attempted
to commit suicide. As was natural, all lost themselves in conjectures.
Tadeo gave his particular version, which according to him came from a
reliable source: Simoun had been assaulted by some unknown person in
the old Plaza Vivac, [55] the motive being revenge, in proof of which
was the fact that Simoun himself refused to make the least explanation.
From this they proceeded to talk of mysterious revenges, and naturally
of monkish pranks, each one relating the exploits of the curate of his
town.
A notice in large black letters crowned the frieze of the room with
this warning:
De esta fonda el cabecilla
Al publico advierte
Que nada dejen absolutamente
Sobre alguna mesa ó silla. [56]
“What a notice!” exclaimed Sandoval. “As if he might have confidence in
the police, eh? And what verses! Don Tiburcio converted into a
quatrain—two feet, one longer than the other, between two crutches! If
Isagani sees them, he’ll present them to his future aunt.”
“Here’s Isagani!” called a voice from the stairway. The happy youth
appeared radiant with joy, followed by two Chinese, without camisas,
who carried on enormous waiters tureens that gave out an appetizing
odor. Merry exclamations greeted them.
Juanito Pelaez was missing, but the hour fixed had already passed, so
they sat down happily to the tables. Juanito was always unconventional.
“If in his place we had invited Basilio,” said Tadeo, “we should have
been better entertained. We might have got him drunk and drawn some
secrets from him.”
“What, does the prudent Basilio possess secrets?”
“I should say so!” replied Tadeo. “Of the most important kind. There
are some enigmas to which he alone has the key: the boy who
disappeared, the nun—”
“Gentlemen, the pansit lang-lang is the soup par excellence!” cried
Makaraig. “As you will observe, Sandoval, it is composed of vermicelli,
crabs or shrimps, egg paste, scraps of chicken, and I don’t know what
else. As first-fruits, let us offer the bones to Don Custodio, to see
if he will project something with them.”
A burst of merry laughter greeted this sally.
“If he should learn—”
“He’d come a-running!” concluded Sandoval. “This is excellent soup—what
is it called?”
“Pansit lang-lang, that is, Chinese pansit, to distinguish it from that
which is peculiar to this country.”
“Bah! That’s a hard name to remember. In honor of Don Custodio, I
christen it the soup project!”
“Gentlemen,” said Makaraig, who had prepared the menu, “there are three
courses yet. Chinese stew made of pork—”
“Which should be dedicated to Padre Irene.”
“Get out! Padre Irene doesn’t eat pork, unless he turns his nose away,”
whispered a young man from Iloilo to his neighbor.
“Let him turn his nose away!”
“Down with Padre Irene’s nose,” cried several at once.
“Respect, gentlemen, more respect!” demanded Pecson with comic gravity.
“The third course is a lobster pie—”
“Which should be dedicated to the friars,” suggested he of the Visayas.
“For the lobsters’ sake,” added Sandoval.
“Right, and call it friar pie!”
The whole crowd took this up, repeating in concert, “Friar pie!”
“I protest in the name of one of them,” said Isagani.
“And I, in the name of the lobsters,” added Tadeo.
“Respect, gentlemen, more respect!” again demanded Pecson with a full
mouth.
“The fourth is stewed pansit, which is dedicated—to the government and
the country!”
All turned toward Makaraig, who went on: “Until recently, gentlemen,
the pansit was believed to be Chinese or Japanese, but the fact is
that, being unknown in China or Japan, it would seem to be Filipino,
yet those who prepare it and get the benefit from it are the
Chinese—the same, the very, very same that happens to the government
and to the Philippines: they seem to be Chinese, but whether they are
or not, the Holy Mother has her doctors—all eat and enjoy it, yet
characterize it as disagreeable and loathsome, the same as with the
country, the same as with the government. All live at its cost, all
share in its feast, and afterwards there is no worse country than the
Philippines, there is no government more imperfect. Let us then
dedicate the pansit to the country and to the government.”
“Agreed!” many exclaimed.
“I protest!” cried Isagani.
“Respect for the weaker, respect for the victims,” called Pecson in a
hollow voice, waving a chicken-bone in the air.
“Let’s dedicate the pansit to Quiroga the Chinaman, one of the four
powers of the Filipino world,” proposed Isagani.
“No, to his Black Eminence.”
“Silence!” cautioned one mysteriously. “There are people in the plaza
watching us, and walls have ears.”
True it was that curious groups were standing by the windows, while the
talk and laughter in the adjoining houses had ceased altogether, as if
the people there were giving their attention to what was occurring at