The Social Cancer: A Complete English Version of Noli Me Tangere
are lost in moving, the letters, and the--and everything that is
mislaid?" interrupted Fray Damaso, stammering in the vain effort to
control his anger.
Little by little the party resumed its former tranquillity. Other
guests had come in, among them a lame old Spaniard of mild and
inoffensive aspect leaning on the arm of an elderly Filipina,
who was resplendent in frizzes and paint and a European gown. The
group welcomed them heartily, and Doctor De Espadaña and his
señora, the _Doctora_ Doña Victorina, took their seats among our
acquaintances. Some newspaper reporters and shopkeepers greeted one
another and moved about aimlessly without knowing just what to do.
"But can you tell me, Señor Laruja, what kind of man our host
is?" inquired the rubicund youth. "I haven't been introduced to
him yet."
"They say that he has gone out. I haven't seen him either."
"There's no need of introductions here," volunteered Fray
Damaso. "Santiago is made of the right stuff."
"No, he's not the man who invented gunpowder," [24] added Laruja.
"You too, Señor Laruja," exclaimed Doña Victorina in mild reproach,
as she fanned herself. "How could the poor man invent gunpowder if,
as is said, the Chinese invented it centuries ago?"
"The Chinese! Are you crazy?" cried Fray Damaso. "Out with you! A
Franciscan, one of my Order, Fray What-do-you-call-him Savalls,
[25] invented it in the--ah the seventh century!"
"A Franciscan? Well, he must have been a missionary in China, that
Padre Savalls," replied the lady, who did not thus easily part from
her beliefs.
"Schwartz, [26] perhaps you mean, señora," said Fray Sibyla, without
looking at her.
"I don't know. Fray Damaso said a Franciscan and I was only repeating."
"Well, Savalls or Chevas, what does it matter? The difference of
a letter doesn't make him a Chinaman," replied the Franciscan in
bad humor.
"And in the fourteenth century, not the seventh," added the Dominican
in a tone of correction, as if to mortify the pride of the other friar.
"Well, neither does a century more or less make him a Dominican."
"Don't get angry, your Reverence," admonished Padre Sibyla,
smiling. "So much the better that he did invent it so as to save his
brethren the trouble."
"And did you say, Padre Sibyla, that it was in the fourteenth
century?" asked Doña Victorina with great interest. "Was that before
or after Christ?"
Fortunately for the individual questioned, two persons entered
the room.
CHAPTER II
Crisostomo Ibarra
It was not two beautiful and well-gowned young women that attracted
the attention of all, even including Fray Sibyla, nor was it his
Excellency the Captain-General with his staff, that the lieutenant
should start from his abstraction and take a couple of steps forward,
or that Fray Damaso should look as if turned to stone; it was simply
the original of the oil-painting leading by the hand a young man
dressed in deep mourning.
"Good evening, gentlemen! Good evening, Padre!" were the greetings
of Capitan Tiago as he kissed the hands of the priests, who forgot
to bestow upon him their benediction. The Dominican had taken off
his glasses to stare at the newly arrived youth, while Fray Damaso
was pale and unnaturally wide-eyed.
"I have the honor of presenting to you Don Crisostomo Ibarra, the son
of my deceased friend," went on Capitan Tiago. "The young gentleman
has just arrived from Europe and I went to meet him."
At the mention of the name exclamations were heard. The lieutenant
forgot to pay his respects to his host and approached the young man,
looking him over from head to foot. The young man himself at that
moment was exchanging the conventional greetings with all in the group,
nor did there seem to be any thing extraordinary about him except
his mourning garments in the center of that brilliantly lighted
room. Yet in spite of them his remarkable stature, his features,
and his movements breathed forth an air of healthy youthfulness in
which both body and mind had equally developed. There might have been
noticed in his frank, pleasant face some faint traces of Spanish
blood showing through a beautiful brown color, slightly flushed at
the cheeks as a result perhaps of his residence in cold countries.
"What!" he exclaimed with joyful surprise, "the curate of my native
town! Padre Damaso, my father's intimate friend!"
Every look in the room was directed toward the Franciscan, who made
no movement.
"Pardon me, perhaps I'm mistaken," added Ibarra, embarrassed.
"You are not mistaken," the friar was at last able to articulate in a
changed voice, "but your father was never an intimate friend of mine."
Ibarra slowly withdrew his extended hand, looking greatly surprised,
and turned to encounter the gloomy gaze of the lieutenant fixed on him.
"Young man, are you the son of Don Rafael Ibarra?" he asked.
The youth bowed. Fray Damaso partly rose in his chair and stared
fixedly at the lieutenant.
"Welcome back to your country! And may you be happier in it than your
father was!" exclaimed the officer in a trembling voice. "I knew him
well and can say that he was one of the worthiest and most honorable
men in the Philippines."
"Sir," replied Ibarra, deeply moved, "the praise you bestow upon my
father removes my doubts about the manner of his death, of which I,
his son, am yet ignorant."
The eyes of the old soldier filled with tears and turning away hastily
he withdrew. The young man thus found himself alone in the center
of the room. His host having disappeared, he saw no one who might
introduce him to the young ladies, many of whom were watching him
with interest. After a few moments of hesitation he started toward
them in a simple and natural manner.
"Allow me," he said, "to overstep the rules of strict etiquette. It
has been seven years since I have been in my own country and upon
returning to it I cannot suppress my admiration and refrain from
paying my respects to its most precious ornaments, the ladies."
But as none of them ventured a reply, he found himself obliged to
retire. He then turned toward a group of men who, upon seeing him
approach, arranged themselves in a semicircle.
"Gentlemen," he addressed them, "it is a custom in Germany,
when a stranger finds himself at a function and there is no one to
introduce him to those present, that he give his name and so introduce
himself. Allow me to adopt this usage here, not to introduce foreign
customs when our own are so beautiful, but because I find myself driven
to it by necessity. I have already paid my respects to the skies and
to the ladies of my native land; now I wish to greet its citizens,
my fellow-countrymen. Gentlemen, my name is Juan Crisostomo Ibarra
y Magsalin."
The others gave their names, more or less obscure, and unimportant
here.
"My name is A----," said one youth dryly, as he made a slight bow.
"Then I have the honor of addressing the poet whose works have done
so much to keep up my enthusiasm for my native land. It is said that
you do not write any more, but I could not learn the reason."
"The reason? Because one does not seek inspiration in order to debase
himself and lie. One writer has been imprisoned for having put a
very obvious truth into verse. They may have called me a poet but
they sha'n't call me a fool."
"And may I enquire what that truth was?"
"He said that the lion's son is also a lion. He came very near to being
exiled for it," replied the strange youth, moving away from the group.
A man with a smiling face, dressed in the fashion of the natives
of the country, with diamond studs in his shirt-bosom, came up at
that moment almost running. He went directly to Ibarra and grasped
his hand, saying, "Señor Ibarra, I've been eager to make your
acquaintance. Capitan Tiago is a friend of mine and I knew your
respected father. I am known as Capitan Tinong and live in Tondo,
where you will always be welcome. I hope that you will honor me with a
visit. Come and dine with us tomorrow." He smiled and rubbed his hands.
"Thank you," replied Ibarra, warmly, charmed with such amiability,
"but tomorrow morning I must leave for San Diego."
"How unfortunate! Then it will be on your return."
"Dinner is served!" announced a waiter from the café La Campana, and
the guests began to file out toward the table, the women, especially
the Filipinas, with great hesitation.
CHAPTER III
The Dinner
Jele, jele, bago quiere. [27]
Fray Sibyla seemed to be very content as he moved along tranquilly with
the look of disdain no longer playing about his thin, refined lips. He
even condescended to speak to the lame doctor, De Espadaña, who
answered in monosyllables only, as he was somewhat of a stutterer. The
Franciscan was in a frightful humor, kicking at the chairs and even
elbowing a cadet out of his way. The lieutenant was grave while the
others talked vivaciously, praising the magnificence of the table. Doña
Victorina, however, was just turning up her nose in disdain when she
suddenly became as furious as a trampled serpent--the lieutenant had
stepped on the train of her gown.
"Haven't you any eyes?" she demanded.
"Yes, señora, two better than yours, but the fact is that I was
admiring your frizzes," retorted the rather ungallant soldier as he
moved away from her.
As if from instinct the two friars both started toward the head of the
table, perhaps from habit, and then, as might have been expected, the
same thing happened that occurs with the competitors for a university
position, who openly exalt the qualifications and superiority of their
opponents, later giving to understand that just the contrary was meant,
and who murmur and grumble when they do not receive the appointment.
"For you, Fray Damaso."
"For you, Fray Sibyla."
"An older friend of the family--confessor of the deceased lady--age,
dignity, and authority--"
"Not so very old, either! On the other hand, you are the curate of
the district," replied Fray Damaso sourly, without taking his hand
from the back of the chair.
"Since you command it, I obey," concluded Fray Sibyla, disposing
himself to take the seat.
"I don't command it!" protested the Franciscan. "I don't command it!"
Fray Sibyla was about to seat himself without paying any more attention
to these protests when his eyes happened to encounter those of the
lieutenant. According to clerical opinion in the Philippines, the
highest secular official is inferior to a friar-cook: _cedant arma
togae_, said Cicero in the Senate--_cedant arma cottae_, say the
friars in the Philippines. [28]
But Fray Sibyla was a well-bred person, so he said, "Lieutenant, here
we are in the world and not in the church. The seat of honor belongs
to you." To judge from the tone of his voice, however, even in the
world it really did belong to him, and the lieutenant, either to keep
out of trouble or to avoid sitting between two friars, curtly declined.
None of the claimants had given a thought to their host. Ibarra
noticed him watching the scene with a smile of satisfaction.
"How's this, Don Santiago, aren't you going to sit down with us?"
But all the seats were occupied; Lucullus was not to sup in the house
of Lucullus.
"Sit still, don't get up!" said Capitan Tiago, placing his hand on
the young man's shoulder. "This fiesta is for the special purpose
of giving thanks to the Virgin for your safe arrival. _Oy!_ Bring
on the _tinola!_ I ordered _tinola_ as you doubtless have not tasted
any for so long a time."
A large steaming tureen was brought in. The Dominican, after muttering
the benedicite, to which scarcely any one knew how to respond, began
to serve the contents. But whether from carelessness or other cause,
Padre Damaso received a plate in which a bare neck and a tough wing