The Social Cancer: A Complete English Version of Noli Me Tangere
of chicken floated about in a large quantity of soup amid lumps of
squash, while the others were eating legs and breasts, especially
Ibarra, to whose lot fell the second joints. Observing all this, the
Franciscan mashed up some pieces of squash, barely tasted the soup,
dropped his spoon noisily, and roughly pushed his plate away. The
Dominican was very busy talking to the rubicund youth.
"How long have you been away from the country?" Laruja asked Ibarra.
"Almost seven years."
"Then you have probably forgotten all about it."
"Quite the contrary. Even if my country does seem to have forgotten
me, I have always thought about it."
"How do you mean that it has forgotten you?" inquired the rubicund
youth.
"I mean that it has been a year since I have received any news from
here, so that I find myself a stranger who does not yet know how and
when his father died."
This statement drew a sudden exclamation from the lieutenant.
"And where were you that you didn't telegraph?" asked Doña
Victorina. "When we were married we telegraphed to the Peñinsula." [29]
"Señora, for the past two years I have been in the northern part of
Europe, in Germany and Russian Poland."
Doctor De Espadaña, who until now had not ventured upon any
conversation, thought this a good opportunity to say something. "I--I
knew in S-spain a P-pole from W-warsaw, c-called S-stadtnitzki, if
I r-remember c-correctly. P-perhaps you s-saw him?" he asked timidly
and almost blushingly.
"It's very likely," answered Ibarra in a friendly manner, "but just
at this moment I don't recall him."
"B-but you c-couldn't have c-confused him with any one else," went
on the Doctor, taking courage. "He was r-ruddy as gold and t-talked
Spanish very b-badly."
"Those are good clues, but unfortunately while there I talked Spanish
only in a few consulates."
"How then did you get along?" asked the wondering Doña Victorina.
"The language of the country served my needs, madam."
"Do you also speak English?" inquired the Dominican, who had been in
Hongkong, and who was a master of pidgin-English, that adulteration
of Shakespeare's tongue used by the sons of the Celestial Empire.
"I stayed in England a year among people who talked nothing but
English."
"Which country of Europe pleased you the most?" asked the rubicund
youth.
"After Spain, my second fatherland, any country of free Europe."
"And you who seem to have traveled so much, tell us what do you
consider the most notable thing that you have seen?" inquired Laruja.
Ibarra appeared to reflect. "Notable--in what way?"
"For example, in regard to the life of the people--the social,
political, religious life--in general, in its essential features--as
a whole."
Ibarra paused thoughtfully before replying. "Frankly, I like everything
in those people, setting aside the national pride of each one. But
before visiting a country, I tried to familiarize myself with its
history, its Exodus, if I may so speak, and afterwards I found
everything quite natural. I have observed that the prosperity or
misery of each people is in direct proportion to its liberties or its
prejudices and, accordingly, to the sacrifices or the selfishness of
its forefathers."
"And haven't you observed anything more than that?" broke in the
Franciscan with a sneer. Since the beginning of the dinner he had not
uttered a single word, his whole attention having been taking up,
no doubt, with the food. "It wasn't worth while to squander your
fortune to learn so trifling a thing. Any schoolboy knows that."
Ibarra was placed in an embarrassing position, and the rest looked
from one to the other as if fearing a disagreeable scene. He was
about to say, "The dinner is nearly over and his Reverence is now
satiated," but restrained himself and merely remarked to the others,
"Gentlemen, don't be surprised at the familiarity with which our former
curate treats me. He treated me so when I was a child, and the years
seem to make no difference in his Reverence. I appreciate it, too,
because it recalls the days when his Reverence visited our home and
honored my father's table."
The Dominican glanced furtively at the Franciscan, who was trembling
visibly. Ibarra continued as he rose from the table: "You will now
permit me to retire, since, as I have just arrived and must go away
tomorrow morning, there remain some important business matters for me
to attend to. The principal part of the dinner is over and I drink
but little wine and seldom touch cordials. Gentlemen, all for Spain
and the Philippines!" Saying this, he drained his glass, which he had
not before touched. The old lieutenant silently followed his example.
"Don't go!" whispered Capitan Tiago. "Maria Clara will be here. Isabel
has gone to get her. The new curate of your town, who is a saint,
is also coming."
"I'll call tomorrow before starting. I've a very important visit to
make now." With this he went away.
Meanwhile the Franciscan had recovered himself. "Do you see?" he
said to the rubicund youth, at the same time flourishing his dessert
spoon. "That comes from pride. They can't stand to have the curate
correct them. They even think that they are respectable persons. It's
the evil result of sending young men to Europe. The government ought
to prohibit it."
"And how about the lieutenant?" Doña Victorina chimed in upon the
Franciscan, "he didn't get the frown off his face the whole evening. He
did well to leave us so old and still only a lieutenant!" The lady
could not forget the allusion to her frizzes and the trampled ruffles
of her gown.
That night the rubicund youth wrote down, among other things, the
following title for a chapter in his _Colonial Studies_: "Concerning
the manner in which the neck and wing of a chicken in a friar's plate
of soup may disturb the merriment of a feast." Among his notes there
appeared these observations: "In the Philippines the most unnecessary
person at a dinner is he who gives it, for they are quite capable of
beginning by throwing the host into the street and then everything
will go on smoothly. Under present conditions it would perhaps be a
good thing not to allow the Filipinos to leave the country, and even
not to teach them to read."
CHAPTER IV
Heretic and Filibuster
Ibarra stood undecided for a moment. The night breeze, which during
those months blows cool enough in Manila, seemed to drive from his
forehead the light cloud that had darkened it. He took off his hat and
drew a deep breath. Carriages flashed by, public rigs moved along at a
sleepy pace, pedestrians of many nationalities were passing. He walked
along at that irregular pace which indicates thoughtful abstraction
or freedom from care, directing his steps toward Binondo Plaza and
looking about him as if to recall the place. There were the same
streets and the identical houses with their white and blue walls,
whitewashed, or frescoed in bad imitation of granite; the church
continued to show its illuminated clock face; there were the same
Chinese shops with their soiled curtains and their iron gratings, in
one of which was a bar that he, in imitation of the street urchins of
Manila, had twisted one night; it was still unstraightened. "How slowly
everything moves," he murmured as he turned into Calle Sacristia. The
ice-cream venders were repeating the same shrill cry, "_Sorbeteee!_"
while the smoky lamps still lighted the identical Chinese stands and
those of the old women who sold candy and fruit.
"Wonderful!" he exclaimed. "There's the same Chinese who was here
seven years ago, and that old woman--the very same! It might be said
that tonight I've dreamed of a seven years' journey in Europe. Good
heavens, that pavement is still in the same unrepaired condition
as when I left!" True it was that the stones of the sidewalk on the
corner of San Jacinto and Sacristia were still loose.
While he was meditating upon this marvel of the city's stability in
a country where everything is so unstable, a hand was placed lightly
on his shoulder. He raised his head to see the old lieutenant gazing
at him with something like a smile in place of the hard expression
and the frown which usually characterized him.
"Young man, be careful! Learn from your father!" was the abrupt
greeting of the old soldier.
"Pardon me, but you seem to have thought a great deal of my father. Can
you tell me how he died?" asked Ibarra, staring at him.
"What! Don't you know about it?" asked the officer.
"I asked Don Santiago about it, but he wouldn't promise to tell me
until tomorrow. Perhaps you know?"
"I should say I do, as does everybody else. He died in prison!"
The young man stepped backward a pace and gazed searchingly at the
lieutenant. "In prison? Who died in prison?"
"Your father, man, since he was in confinement," was the somewhat
surprised answer.
"My father--in prison--confined in a prison? What are you talking
about? Do you know who my father was? Are you--?" demanded the young
man, seizing the officer's arm.
"I rather think that I'm not mistaken. He was Don Rafael Ibarra."
"Yes, Don Rafael Ibarra," echoed the youth weakly.
"Well, I thought you knew about it," muttered the soldier in a
tone of compassion as he saw what was passing in Ibarra's mind. "I
supposed that you--but be brave! Here one cannot be honest and keep
out of jail."
"I must believe that you are not joking with me," replied Ibarra in
a weak voice, after a few moments' silence. "Can you tell me why he
was in prison?"
The old man seemed to be perplexed. "It's strange to me that your
family affairs were not made known to you."
"His last letter, a year ago, said that I should not be uneasy if
he did not write, as he was very busy. He charged me to continue my
studies and--sent me his blessing."
"Then he wrote that letter to you just before he died. It will soon
be a year since we buried him."
"But why was my father a prisoner?"
"For a very honorable reason. But come with me to the barracks and
I'll tell you as we go along. Take my arm."
They moved along for some time in silence. The elder seemed to be in
deep thought and to be seeking inspiration from his goatee, which he
stroked continually.
"As you well know," he began, "your father was the richest man in
the province, and while many loved and respected him, there were
also some who envied and hated him. We Spaniards who come to the
Philippines are unfortunately not all we ought to be. I say this as
much on account of one of your ancestors as on account of your father's
enemies. The continual changes, the corruption in the higher circles,
the favoritism, the low cost and the shortness of the journey, are to
blame for it all. The worst characters of the Peninsula come here,
and even if a good man does come, the country soon ruins him. So it
was that your father had a number of enemies among the curates and
other Spaniards."
Here he hesitated for a while. "Some months after your departure the
troubles with Padre Damaso began, but I am unable to explain the real
cause of them. Fray Damaso accused him of not coming to confession,
although he had not done so formerly and they had nevertheless been
good friends, as you may still remember. Moreover, Don Rafael was a
very upright man, more so than many of those who regularly attend
confession and than the confessors themselves. He had framed for
himself a rigid morality and often said to me, when he talked of
these troubles, 'Señor Guevara, do you believe that God will pardon
any crime, a murder for instance, solely by a man's telling it to a
priest--a man after all and one whose duty it is to keep quiet about
it--by his fearing that he will roast in hell as a penance--by being
cowardly and certainly shameless into the bargain? I have another