The Social Cancer: A Complete English Version of Noli Me Tangere
how about the air and the light of day? True shame encounters eyes
everywhere. She covered her face with her pañuelo and walked along
blindly, weeping in silence at her disgrace. She had felt misery and
knew what it was to be abandoned by every one, even her own husband,
but until now she had considered herself honored and respected: up
to this time she had looked with compassion on those boldly dressed
women whom the town knew as the concubines of the soldiers. Now it
seemed to her that she had fallen even a step lower than they in the
social scale.
The sound of hoofs was heard, proceeding from a small train of men
and women mounted on poor nags, each between two baskets hung over
the back of his mount; it was a party carrying fish to the interior
towns. Some of them on passing her hut had often asked for a drink of
water and had presented her with some fishes. Now as they passed her
they seemed to beat and trample upon her while their compassionate
or disdainful looks penetrated through her pañuelo and stung her
face. When these travelers had finally passed she sighed and raised the
pañuelo an instant to see how far she still was from the town. There
yet remained a few telegraph poles to be passed before reaching the
_bantayan_, or little watch-house, at the entrance to the town. Never
had that distance seemed so great to her.
Beside the road there grew a leafy bamboo thicket in whose shade she
had rested at other times, and where her lover had talked so sweetly as
he helped her carry her basket of fruit and vegetables. Alas, all that
was past, like a dream! The lover had become her husband and a cabeza
de barangay, and then trouble had commenced to knock at her door. As
the sun was beginning to shine hotly, the soldiers asked her if she did
not want to rest there. "Thanks, no!" was the horrified woman's answer.
Real terror seized her when they neared the town. She threw her
anguished gaze in all directions, but no refuge offered itself,
only wide rice-fields, a small irrigating ditch, and some stunted
trees; there was not a cliff or even a rock upon which she might dash
herself to pieces! Now she regretted that she had come so far with
the soldiers; she longed for the deep river that flowed by her hut,
whose high and rock-strewn banks would have offered such a sweet
death. But again the thought of her sons, especially of Crispin, of
whose fate she was still ignorant, lightened the darkness of her night,
and she was able to murmur resignedly, "Afterwards--afterwards--we'll
go and live in the depths of the forest."
Drying her eyes and trying to look calm, she turned to her guards and
said in a low voice, with an indefinable accent that was a complaint
and a lament, a prayer and a reproach, sorrow condensed into sound,
"Now we're in the town." Even the soldiers seemed touched as they
answered her with a gesture. She struggled to affect a calm bearing
while she went forward quickly.
At that moment the church bells began to peal out, announcing the end
of the high mass. Sisa hurried her steps so as to avoid, if possible,
meeting the people who were coming out, but in vain, for no means
offered to escape encountering them. With a bitter smile she saluted
two of her acquaintances, who merely turned inquiring glances upon
her, so that to avoid further mortification she fixed her gaze on
the ground, and yet, strange to say, she stumbled over the stones in
the road! Upon seeing her, people paused for a moment and conversed
among themselves as they gazed at her, all of which she saw and felt
in spite of her downcast eyes.
She heard the shameless tones of a woman who asked from behind at the
top of her voice, "Where did you catch her? And the money?" It was a
woman without a tapis, or tunic, dressed in a green and yellow skirt
and a camisa of blue gauze, easily recognizable from her costume as
a _querida_ of the soldiery. Sisa felt as if she had received a slap
in the face, for that woman had exposed her before the crowd. She
raised her eyes for a moment to get her fill of scorn and hate, but
saw the people far, far away. Yet she felt the chill of their stares
and heard their whispers as she moved over the ground almost without
knowing that she touched it.
"Eh, this way!" a guard called to her. Like an automaton whose
mechanism is breaking, she whirled about rapidly on her heels, then
without seeing or thinking of anything ran to hide herself. She
made out a door where a sentinel stood and tried to enter it, but
a still more imperious voice called her aside. With wavering steps
she sought the direction of that voice, then felt herself pushed
along by the shoulders; she shut her eyes, took a couple of steps,
and lacking further strength, let herself fall to the ground, first
on her knees and then in a sitting posture. Dry and voiceless sobs
shook her frame convulsively.
Now she was in the barracks among the soldiers, women, hogs, and
chickens. Some of the men were sewing at their clothes while their
thighs furnished pillows for their _queridas_, who were reclining
on benches, smoking and gazing wearily at the ceiling. Other women
were helping some of the men clean their ornaments and arms, humming
doubtful songs the while.
"It seems that the chicks have escaped, for you've brought only the
old hen!" commented one woman to the new arrivals,--whether alluding
to Sisa or the still clucking hen is not certain.
"Yes, the hen is always worth more than the chicks," Sisa herself
answered when she observed that the soldiers were silent.
"Where's the sergeant?" asked one of the guards in a disgusted
tone. "Has report been made to the alferez yet?"
A general shrugging of shoulders was his answer, for no one was going
to trouble himself inquiring about the fate of a poor woman.
There Sisa spent two hours in a state of semi-idiocy, huddled in a
corner with her head hidden in her arms and her hair falling down in
disorder. At noon the alferez was informed, and the first thing that
he did was to discredit the curate's accusation.
"Bah! Tricks of that rascally friar," he commented, as he ordered
that the woman be released and that no one should pay any attention
to the matter. "If he wants to get back what he's lost, let him ask
St. Anthony or complain to the nuncio. Out with her!"
Consequently, Sisa was ejected from the barracks almost violently,
as she did not try to move herself. Finding herself in the street, she
instinctively started to hurry toward her house, with her head bared,
her hair disheveled, and her gaze fixed on the distant horizon. The sun
burned in its zenith with never a cloud to shade its flashing disk;
the wind shook the leaves of the trees lightly along the dry road,
while no bird dared stir from the shade of their branches.
At last Sisa reached her hut and entered it in silence, She walked all
about it and ran in and out for a time. Then she hurried to old Tasio's
house and knocked at the door, but he was not at home. The unhappy
woman then returned to her hut and began to call loudly for Basilio
and Crispin, stopping every few minutes to listen attentively. Her
voice came back in an echo, for the soft murmur of the water in the
neighboring river and the rustling of the bamboo leaves were the
only sounds that broke the stillness. She called again and again as
she climbed the low cliffs, or went down into a gully, or descended
to the river. Her eyes rolled about with a sinister expression, now
flashing up with brilliant gleams, now becoming obscured like the
sky on a stormy night; it might be said that the light of reason was
flickering and about to be extinguished.
Again returning to her hut, she sat down on the mat where she had
lain the night before. Raising her eyes, she saw a twisted remnant
from Basilio's camisa at the end of the bamboo post in the _dinding_,
or wall, that overlooked the precipice. She seized and examined it
in the sunlight. There were blood stains on it, but Sisa hardly saw
them, for she went outside and continued to raise and lower it before
her eyes to examine it in the burning sunlight. The light was failing
and everything beginning to grow dark around her. She gazed wide-eyed
and unblinkingly straight at the sun.
Still wandering about here and there, crying and wailing, she would
have frightened any listener, for her voice now uttered rare notes such
as are not often produced in the human throat. In a night of roaring
tempest, when the whirling winds beat with invisible wings against
the crowding shadows that ride upon it, if you should find yourself
in a solitary and ruined building, you would hear moans and sighs
which you might suppose to be the soughing of the wind as it beats
on the high towers and moldering walls to fill you with terror and
make you shudder in spite of yourself; as mournful as those unknown
sounds of the dark night when the tempest roars were the accents of
that mother. In this condition night came upon her. Perhaps Heaven
had granted some hours of sleep while the invisible wing of an angel,
brushing over her pallid countenance, might wipe out the sorrows
from her memory; perhaps such suffering was too great for weak human
endurance, and Providence had intervened with its sweet remedy,
forgetfulness. However that may be, the next day Sisa wandered about
smiling, singing, and talking with all the creatures of wood and field.
CHAPTER XXII
Lights and Shadows
Three days have passed since the events narrated, three days which
the town of San Diego has devoted to making preparations for the
fiesta, commenting and murmuring at the same time. While all were
enjoying the prospect of the pleasures to come, some spoke ill of the
gobernadorcillo, others of the teniente-mayor, others of the young men,
and there were not lacking those who blamed everybody for everything.
There was a great deal of comment on the arrival of Maria Clara,
accompanied by her Aunt Isabel. All rejoiced over it because they loved
her and admired her beauty, while at the same time they wondered at the
change that had come over Padre Salvi. "He often becomes inattentive
during the holy services, nor does he talk much with us, and he is
thinner and more taciturn than usual," commented his penitents. The
cook noticed him getting thinner and thinner by minutes and complained
of the little honor that was done to his dishes. But that which caused
the most comment among the people was the fact that in the convento
were to be seen more than two lights burning during the evening while
Padre Salvi was on a visit to a private dwelling--the home of Maria
Clara! The pious women crossed themselves but continued their comments.
Ibarra had telegraphed from the capital of the province welcoming Aunt
Isabel and her niece, but had failed to explain the reason for his
absence. Many thought him a prisoner on account of his treatment of
Padre Salvi on the afternoon of All Saints, but the comments reached
a climax when, on the evening of the third day, they saw him alight
before the home of his fiancée and extend a polite greeting to the
priest, who was just entering the same house.
Sisa and her sons were forgotten by all.
If we should now go into the home of Maria Clara, a beautiful nest
set among trees of orange and ilang-ilang, we should surprise the two
young people at a window overlooking the lake, shadowed by flowers
and climbing vines which exhaled a delicate perfume. Their lips
murmured words softer than the rustling of the leaves and sweeter
than the aromatic odors that floated through the garden. It was the
hour when the sirens of the lake take advantage of the fast falling
twilight to show their merry heads above the waves to gaze upon the
setting sun and sing it to rest. It is said that their eyes and hair