The Social Cancer: A Complete English Version of Noli Me Tangere
songs of the peasants as they returned from their labors, it seemed to
me that their tones harmonized with my inner voices, that they were
singing for _you_, and thus they lent reality to my illusions and
dreams. At times I became lost among the mountain paths and while the
night descended slowly, as it does there, I would find myself still
wandering, seeking my way among the pines and beeches and oaks. Then
when some scattering rays of moonlight slipped down into the clear
spaces left in the dense foliage, I seemed to see you in the heart of
the forest as a dim, loving shade wavering about between the spots of
light and shadow. If perhaps the nightingale poured forth his varied
trills, I fancied it was because he saw you and was inspired by you.
"Have I thought of you? The fever of love not only gave warmth to the
snows but colored the ice! The beautiful skies of Italy with their
clear depths reminded me of your eyes, its sunny landscape spoke to
me of your smile; the plains of Andalusia with their scent-laden
airs, peopled with oriental memories, full of romance and color,
told me of your love! On dreamy, moonlit nights, while boating oil
the Rhine, I have asked myself if my fancy did not deceive me as I
saw you among the poplars on the banks, on the rocks of the Lorelei,
or in the midst of the waters, singing in the silence of the night
as if you were a comforting fairy maiden sent to enliven the solitude
and sadness of those ruined castles!"
"I have not traveled like you, so I know only your town and Manila and
Antipolo," she answered with a smile which showed that she believed
all he said. "But since I said good-by to you and entered the convent,
I have always thought of you and have only put you out of my mind
when ordered to do so by my confessor, who imposed many penances upon
me. I recalled our games and our quarrels when we were children. You
used to pick up the most beautiful shells and search in the river
for the roundest and smoothest pebbles of different colors that we
might play games with them. You were very stupid and always lost,
and by way of a forfeit I would slap you with the palm of my hand,
but I always tried not to strike you hard, for I had pity on you. In
those games you cheated much, even more than I did, and we used to
finish our play in a quarrel. Do you remember that time when you
became really angry at me? Then you made me suffer, but afterwards,
when I thought of it in the convent, I smiled and longed for you so
that we might quarrel again--so that we might once more make up. We
were still children and had gone with your mother to bathe in the brook
under the shade of the thick bamboo. On the banks grew many flowers
and plants whose strange names you told me in Latin and Spanish, for
you were even then studying in the Ateneo. [44] I paid no attention,
but amused myself by running after the needle-like dragon-flies and
the butterflies with their rainbow colors and tints of mother-of-pearl
as they swarmed about among the flowers. Sometimes I tried to surprise
them with my hands or to catch the little fishes that slipped rapidly
about amongst the moss and stones in the edge of the water. Once you
disappeared suddenly and when you returned you brought a crown of
leaves and orange blossoms, which you placed upon my head, calling me
Chloe. For yourself you made one of vines. But your mother snatched
away my crown, and after mashing it with a stone mixed it with the
_gogo_ with which she was going to wash our heads. The tears came into
your eyes and you said that she did not understand mythology. 'Silly
boy,' your mother exclaimed, 'you'll see how sweet your hair will
smell afterwards.' I laughed, but you were offended and would not talk
with me, and for the rest of the day appeared so serious that then
I wanted to cry. On our way back to the town through the hot sun,
I picked some sage leaves that grew beside the path and gave them
to you to put in your hat so that you might not get a headache. You
smiled and caught my hand, and we made up."
Ibarra smiled with happiness as he opened his pocketbook and took from
it a piece of paper in which were wrapped some dry, blackened leaves
which gave off a sweet odor. "Your sage leaves," he said, in answer
to her inquiring look. "This is all that you have ever given me."
She in turn snatched from her bosom a little pouch of white
satin. "You must not touch this," she said, tapping the palm of his
hand lightly. "It's a letter of farewell."
"The one I wrote to you before leaving?"
"Have you ever written me any other, sir?"
"And what did I say to you then?"
"Many fibs, excuses of a delinquent debtor," she answered smilingly,
thus giving him to understand how sweet to her those fibs were. "Be
quiet now and I'll read it to you. I'll leave out your fine phrases
in order not to make a martyr of you."
Raising the paper to the height of her eyes so that the youth might
not see her face, she began: "'_My_'--but I'll not read what follows
that because it's not true."
Her eyes ran along some lines.
"'My father wishes me to go away, in spite of all my pleadings. 'You
are a man now,' he told me, 'and you must think about your future
and about your duties. You must learn the science of life, a thing
which your fatherland cannot teach you, so that you may some day be
useful to it. If you remain here in my shadow, in this environment
of business affairs, you will not learn to look far ahead. The
day in which you lose me you will find yourself like the plant
of which our poet Baltazar tells: grown in the water, its leaves
wither at the least scarcity of moisture and a moment's heat dries
it up. Don't you understand? You are almost a young man, and yet you
weep!' These reproaches hurt me and I confessed that I loved you. My
father reflected for a time in silence and then, placing his hand on
my shoulder, said in a trembling voice, 'Do you think that you alone
know how to love, that your father does not love you, and that he will
not feel the separation from you? It is only a short time since we
lost your mother, and I must journey on alone toward old age, toward
the very time of life when I would seek help and comfort from your
youth, yet I accept my loneliness, hardly knowing whether I shall
ever see you again. But you must think of other and greater things;
the future lies open before you, while for me it is already passing
behind; your love is just awakening, while mine is dying; fire burns
in your blood, while the chill is creeping into mine. Yet you weep
and cannot sacrifice the present for the future, useful as it may be
alike to yourself and to your country.' My father's eyes filled with
tears and I fell upon my knees at his feet, I embraced him, I begged
his forgiveness, and I assured him that I was ready to set out--'"
Ibarra's growing agitation caused her to suspend the reading, for he
had grown pale and was pacing back and forth.
"What's the matter? What is troubling you?" she asked him.
"You have almost made me forget that I have my duties, that I must
leave at once for the town. Tomorrow is the day for commemorating
the dead."
Maria Clara silently fixed her large dreamy eyes upon him for a few
moments and then, picking some flowers, she said with emotion, "Go,
I won't detain you longer! In a few days we shall see each other
again. Lay these flowers on the tomb of your parents."
A few moments later the youth descended the stairway accompanied by
Capitan Tiago and Aunt Isabel, while Maria Clara shut herself up in
the oratory.
"Please tell Andeng to get the house ready, as Maria and Isabel are
coming. A pleasant journey!" said Capitan Tiago as Ibarra stepped into
the carriage, which at once started in the direction of the plaza of
San Gabriel.
Afterwards, by way of consolation, her father said to Maria Clara, who
was weeping beside an image of the Virgin, "Come, light two candles
worth two reals each, one to St. Roch, [45] and one to St. Raphael,
the protector of travelers. Light the lamp of Our Lady of Peace and
Prosperous Voyages, since there are so many tulisanes. It's better
to spend four reals for wax and six cuartos for oil now than to pay
a big ransom later."
CHAPTER VIII
Recollections
Ibarra's carriage was passing through a part of the busiest district
in Manila, the same which the night before had made him feel sad,
but which by daylight caused him to smile in spite of himself. The
movement in every part, so many carriages coming and going at full
speed, the carromatas and calesas, the Europeans, the Chinese,
the natives, each in his own peculiar costume, the fruit-venders,
the money-changers, the naked porters, the grocery stores, the lunch
stands and restaurants, the shops, and even the carts drawn by the
impassive and indifferent carabao, who seems to amuse himself in
carrying burdens while he patiently ruminates, all this noise and
confusion, the very sun itself, the distinctive odors and the motley
colors, awoke in the youth's mind a world of sleeping recollections.
Those streets had not yet been paved, and two successive days of
sunshine filled them with dust which covered everything and made the
passer-by cough while it nearly blinded him. A day of rain formed
pools of muddy water, which at night reflected the carriage lights and
splashed mud a distance of several yards away upon the pedestrians on
the narrow sidewalks. And how many women have left their embroidered
slippers in those waves of mud!
Then there might have been seen repairing those streets the lines of
convicts with their shaven heads, dressed in short-sleeved camisas
and pantaloons that reached only to their knees, each with his letter
and number in blue. On their legs were chains partly wrapped in dirty
rags to ease the chafing or perhaps the chill of the iron. Joined
two by two, scorched in the sun, worn out by the heat and fatigue,
they were lashed and goaded by a whip in the hands of one of their own
number, who perhaps consoled himself with this power of maltreating
others. They were tall men with somber faces, which he had never seen
brightened with the light of a smile. Yet their eyes gleamed when the
whistling lash fell upon their shoulders or when a passer-by threw
them the chewed and broken stub of a cigar, which the nearest would
snatch up and hide in his salakot, while the rest remained gazing at
the passers-by with strange looks.
The noise of the stones being crushed to fill the puddles and the
merry clank of the heavy fetters on the swollen ankles seemed to remain
with Ibarra. He shuddered as he recalled a scene that had made a deep
impression on his childish imagination. It was a hot afternoon, and the
burning rays of the sun fell perpendicularly upon a large cart by the
side of which was stretched out one of those unfortunates, lifeless,
yet with his eyes half opened. Two others were silently preparing
a bamboo bier, showing no signs of anger or sorrow or impatience,
for such is the character attributed to the natives: today it is you,
tomorrow it will be I, they say to themselves. The people moved rapidly
about without giving heed, women came up and after a look of curiosity
continued unconcerned on their way--it was such a common sight that
their hearts had become callous. Carriages passed, flashing back from
their varnished sides the rays of the sun that burned in a cloudless
sky. Only he, a child of eleven years and fresh from the country, was
moved, and to him alone it brought bad dreams on the following night.
There no longer existed the useful and honored _Puente de Barcas_, the
good Filipino pontoon bridge that had done its best to be of service
in spite of its natural imperfections and its rising and falling