The Social Cancer: A Complete English Version of Noli Me Tangere
are blue, and that they are crowned with white and red water plants;
that at times the foam reveals their shapely forms, whiter than
the foam itself, and that when night descends completely they begin
their divine sports, playing mysterious airs like those of Æolian
harps. But let us turn to our young people and listen to the end of
their conversation. Ibarra was speaking to Maria Clara.
"Tomorrow before daybreak your wish shall be fulfilled. I'll arrange
everything tonight so that nothing will be lacking."
"Then I'll write to my girl friends to come. But arrange it so that
the curate won't be there."
"Why?"
"Because he seems to be watching me. His deep, gloomy eyes trouble
me, and when he fixes them on me I'm afraid. When he talks to me, his
voice--oh, he speaks of such odd, such strange, such incomprehensible
things! He asked me once if I have ever dreamed of letters from my
mother. I really believe that he is half-crazy. My friend Sinang and
my foster-sister, Andeng, say that he is somewhat touched, because
he neither eats nor bathes and lives in darkness. See to it that he
does not come!"
"We can't do otherwise than invite him," answered Ibarra
thoughtfully. "The customs of the country require it. He is in your
house and, besides, he has conducted himself nobly toward me. When
the alcalde consulted him about the business of which I've told you,
he had only praises for me and didn't try to put the least obstacle
in the way. But I see that you're serious about it, so cease worrying,
for he won't go in the same boat with us."
Light footsteps were heard. It was the curate, who approached with a
forced smile on his lips. "The wind is chilly," he said, "and when
one catches cold one generally doesn't get rid of it until the hot
weather. Aren't you afraid of catching cold?" His voice trembled
and his eyes were turned toward the distant horizon, away from the
young people.
"No, we rather find the night pleasant and the breeze delicious,"
answered Ibarra. "During these months we have our autumn and our
spring. Some leaves fall, but the flowers are always in bloom."
Fray Salvi sighed.
"I think the union of these two seasons beautiful, with no cold winter
intervening," continued Ibarra. "In February the buds on the trees
will burst open and in March we'll have the ripe fruit. When the hot
month's come we shall go elsewhere."
Fray Salvi smiled and began to talk of commonplace things, of the
weather, of the town, and of the fiesta. Maria Clara slipped away on
some pretext.
"Since we are talking of fiestas, allow me to invite you to the one
that we are going to celebrate tomorrow. It is to be a picnic in the
woods, which we and our friends are going to hold together."
"Where will it be held?"
"The young women wish to hold it by the brook in the neighboring wood,
near to the old balete, so we shall rise early to avoid the sun."
The priest thought a moment and then answered: "The invitation is
very tempting and I accept it to prove to you that I hold no rancor
against you. But I shall have to go late, after I've attended to my
duties. Happy are you who are free, entirely free."
A few moments later Ibarra left in order to look after the arrangements
for the picnic on the next day. The night was dark and in the street
some one approached and saluted him respectfully.
"Who are you?" asked Ibarra.
"Sir, you don't know my name," answered the unknown, "but I've been
waiting for you two days."
"For what purpose?"
"Because nowhere has any pity been shown me and they say that I'm an
outlaw, sir. But I've lost my two sons, my wife is insane, and every
one says that I deserve what has happened to me."
Ibarra looked at the man critically as he asked, "What do you want
now?"
"To beg for your pity upon my wife and sons."
"I can't stop now," replied Ibarra. "If you wish to come, you can
tell me as we go along what has happened to you."
The man thanked him, and the two quickly disappeared in the shadows
along the dimly lighted street.
CHAPTER XXIII
Fishing
The stars still glittered in the sapphire arch of heaven and the birds
were still sleeping among the branches when a merry party, lighted
by torches of resin, commonly called _huepes_, made its way through
the streets toward the lake. There were five girls, who walked along
rapidly with hands clasped or arms encircling one another's waists,
followed by some old women and by servants who were carrying gracefully
on their heads baskets of food and dishes. Looking upon the laughing
and hopeful countenances of the young women and watching the wind blow
about their abundant black hair and the wide folds of their garments,
we might have taken them for goddesses of the night fleeing from the
day, did we not know that they were Maria Clara and her four friends,
the merry Sinang, the grave Victoria, the beautiful Iday, and the
thoughtful Neneng of modest and timid beauty. They were conversing
in a lively manner, laughing and pinching one another, whispering in
one another's ears and then breaking out into loud laughter.
"You'll wake up the people who are still asleep," Aunt Isabel
scolded. "When we were young, we didn't make so much disturbance."
"Neither would you get up so early nor would the old folks have been
such sleepy-heads," retorted little Sinang.
They were silent for a short time, then tried to talk in low tones,
but soon forgot themselves and again filled the street with their
fresh young voices.
"Behave as if you were displeased and don't talk to him," Sinang was
advising Maria Clara. "Scold him so he won't get into bad habits."
"Don't be so exacting," objected Iday.
"Be exacting! Don't be foolish! He must be made to obey while he's
only engaged, for after he's your husband he'll do as he pleases,"
counseled little Sinang.
"What do you know about that, child?" her cousin Victoria corrected
her.
"Sst! Keep quiet, for here they come!"
A group of young men, lighting their way with large bamboo torches,
now came up, marching gravely along to the sound of a guitar.
"It sounds like a beggar's guitar," laughed Sinang. When the two
parties met it was the women who maintained a serious and formal
attitude, just as if they had never known how to laugh, while on the
other hand the men talked and laughed, asking six questions to get
half an answer.
"Is the lake calm? Do you think we'll have good weather?" asked
the mothers.
"Don't be alarmed, ladies, I know how to swim well," answered a tall,
thin, emaciated youth.
"We ought to have heard mass first," sighed Aunt Isabel, clasping
her hands.
"There's yet time, ma'am. Albino has been a theological student in
his day and can say it in the boat," remarked another youth, pointing
to the tall, thin one who had first spoken. The latter, who had a
clownish countenance, threw himself into an attitude of contrition,
caricaturing Padre Salvi. Ibarra, though he maintained his serious
demeanor, also joined in the merriment.
When they arrived at the beach, there involuntarily escaped from
the women exclamations of surprise and pleasure at the sight of
two large bankas fastened together and picturesquely adorned with
garlands of flowers, leaves, and ruined cotton of many colors. Little
paper lanterns hung from an improvised canopy amid flowers and
fruits. Comfortable seats with rugs and cushions for the women had
been provided by Ibarra. Even the paddles and oars were decorated,
while in the more profusely decorated banka were a harp, guitars,
accordions, and a trumpet made from a carabao horn. In the other banka
fires burned on the clay _kalanes_ for preparing refreshments of tea,
coffee, and _salabat_.
"In this boat here the women, and in the other there the men," ordered
the mothers upon embarking. "Keep quiet! Don't move about so or we'll
be upset."
"Cross yourself first," advised Aunt Isabel, setting the example.
"Are we to be here all alone?" asked Sinang with a grimace. "Ourselves
alone?" This question was opportunely answered by a pinch from
her mother.
As the boats moved slowly away from the shore, the light of the
lanterns was reflected in the calm waters of the lake, while in the
eastern sky the first tints of dawn were just beginning to appear. A
deep silence reigned over the party after the division established
by the mothers, for the young people seemed to have given themselves
up to meditation.
"Take care," said Albino, the ex-theological student, in a loud tone
to another youth. "Keep your foot tight on the plug under you."
"What?"
"It might come out and let the water in. This banka has a lot of
holes in it."
"Oh, we're going to sink!" cried the frightened women.
"Don't be alarmed, ladies," the ex-theological student reassured them
to calm their fears. "The banka you are in is safe. It has only five
holes in it and they aren't large."
"Five holes! _Jesús!_ Do you want to drown us?" exclaimed the
horrified women.
"Not more than five, ladies, and only about so large," the
ex-theological student assured them, indicating the circle formed
with his index finger and thumb. "Press hard on the plugs so that
they won't come out."
"_María Santísima!_ The water's coming in," cried an old woman who
felt herself already getting wet.
There now arose a small tumult; some screamed, while others thought
of jumping into the water.
"Press hard on the plugs there!" repeated Albino, pointing toward
the place where the girls were.
"Where, where? _Diós!_ We don't know how! For pity's sake come here,
for we don't know how!" begged the frightened women.
It was accordingly necessary for five of the young men to get over
into the other banka to calm the terrified mothers. But by some
strange chance it seemed that there w, as danger by the side of each
of the _dalagas_; all the old ladies together did not have a single
dangerous hole near them! Still more strange it was that Ibarra had
to be seated by the side of Maria Clara, Albino beside Victoria,
and so on. Quiet was restored among the solicitous mothers but not
in the circle of the young people.
As the water was perfectly still, the fish-corrals not far away,
and the hour yet early, it was decided to abandon the oars so that
all might partake of some refreshment. Dawn had now come, so the
lanterns were extinguished.
"There's nothing to compare with _salabat_, drunk in the morning before
going to mass," said Capitana Tika, mother of the merry Sinang. "Drink
some _salabat_ and eat a rice-cake, Albino, and you'll see that even
you will want to pray."
"That's what I'm doing," answered the youth addressed. "I'm thinking
of confessing myself."
"No," said Sinang, "drink some coffee to bring merry thoughts."
"I will, at once, because I feel a trifle sad."
"Don't do that," advised Aunt Isabel. "Drink some tea and eat a few
crackers. They say that tea calms one's thoughts."
"I'll also take some tea and crackers," answered the complaisant youth,
"since fortunately none of these drinks is Catholicism."
"But, can you--" Victoria began.
"Drink some chocolate also? Well, I guess so, since breakfast is
not so far off."
The morning was beautiful. The water began to gleam with the light
reflected from the sky with such clearness that every object stood
revealed without producing a shadow, a bright, fresh clearness
permeated with color, such as we get a hint of in some marine
paintings. All were now merry as they breathed in the light breeze that
began to arise. Even the mothers, so full of cautions and warnings,
now laughed and joked among themselves.
"Do you remember," one old woman was saying to Capitana Tika,
"do you remember the time we went to bathe in the river, before we
were married? In little boats made from banana-stalks there drifted