The Social Cancer: A Complete English Version of Noli Me Tangere

"You may well say that, but his beautiful neighbor doesn't wish to honor the table, for she is scarcely eating a bite," observed one of the employees. Maria Clara blushed. "I thank the gentleman, he troubles himself too much on my account," she stammered timidly, "but--" "But you honor it enough merely by being present," concluded the gallant alcalde as he turned to Padre Salvi. "Padre," he said in a loud voice, "I've observed that during the whole day your Reverence has been silent and thoughtful." "The alcalde is a great observer," remarked Fray Sibyla in a meaning tone. "It's a habit of mine," stammered the Franciscan. "It pleases me more to listen than to talk." "Your Reverence always takes care to win and not to lose," said the alferez in a jesting tone. Padre Salvi, however, did not take this as a joke, for his gaze brightened a moment as he replied, "The alferez knows very well these days that I'm not the one who is winning or losing most." The alferez turned the hit aside with a forced laugh, pretending not to take it to himself. "But, gentlemen, I don't understand how it is possible to talk of winnings and losses," interposed the alcalde. "What will these amiable and discreet young ladies who honor us with their company think of us? For me the young women are like the Æolian harps in the middle of the night--it is necessary to listen with close attention in order that their ineffable harmonies may elevate the soul to the celestial spheres of the infinite and the ideal!" "Your Honor is becoming poetical!" exclaimed the escribano gleefully, and both emptied their wine-glasses. "I can't help it," said the alcalde as he wiped his lips. "Opportunity, while it doesn't always make the thief, makes the poet. In my youth I composed verses which were really not bad." "So your Excellency has been unfaithful to the Muses to follow Themis," emphatically declared our mythical or mythological correspondent. "Pshaw, what would you have? To run through the entire social scale was always my dream. Yesterday I was gathering flowers and singing songs, today I wield the rod of justice and serve Humanity, tomorrow--" "Tomorrow your Honor will throw the rod into the fire to warm yourself by it in the winter of life, and take an appointment in the cabinet," added Padre Sibyla. "Pshaw! Yes--no--to be a cabinet official isn't exactly my beau-ideal: any upstart may become one. A villa in the North in which to spend the summer, a mansion in Madrid, and some property in Andalusia for the winter--there we shall live remembering our beloved Philippines. Of me Voltaire would not say, 'We have lived among these people only to enrich ourselves and to calumniate them.'" The alcalde quoted this in French, so the employees, thinking that his Honor had cracked a joke, began to laugh in appreciation of it. Some of the friars did likewise, since they did not know that the Voltaire mentioned was the same Voltaire whom they had so often cursed and consigned to hell. But Padre Sibyla was aware of it and became serious from the belief that the alcalde had said something heretical or impious. In the other kiosk the children were eating under the direction of their teacher. For Filipino children they were rather noisy, since at the table and in the presence of other persons their sins are generally more of omission than of commission. Perhaps one who was using the tableware improperly would be corrected by his neighbor and from this there would arise a noisy discussion in which each would have his partisans. Some would say the spoon, others the knife or the fork, and as no one was considered an authority there would arise the contention that God is Christ or, more clearly, a dispute of theologians. Their fathers and mothers winked, made signs, nudged one another, and showed their happiness by their smiles. "Ya!" exclaimed a countrywoman to an old man who was mashing buyo in his _kalikut_, "in spite of the fact that my husband is opposed to it, my Andoy shall be a priest. It's true that we're poor, but we'll work, and if necessary we'll beg alms. There are not lacking those who will give money so that the poor may take holy orders. Does not Brother Mateo, a man who does not lie, say that Pope Sextus was a herder of carabaos in Batangas? Well then, look at my Andoy, see if he hasn't already the face of a St. Vincent!" The good mother watered at the mouth to see her son take hold of a fork with both hands. "God help us!" added the old man, rolling his quid of buyo. "If Andoy gets to be Pope we'll go to Rome he, he! I can still walk well, and if I die--he, he!" "Don't worry, granddad! Andoy won't forget that you taught him how to weave baskets." "You're right, Petra. I also believe that your son will be great, at least a patriarch. I have never seen any one who learned the business in a shorter time. Yes, he'll remember me when as Pope or bishop he entertains himself in making baskets for his cook. He'll then say masses for my soul--he, he!" With this hope the good old man again filled his _kalikut_ with buyo. "If God hears my prayers and my hopes are fulfilled, I'll say to Andoy, 'Son, take away all our sins and send us to Heaven!' Then we shan't need to pray and fast and buy indulgences. One whose son is a blessed Pope can commit sins!" "Send him to my house tomorrow, Petra," cried the old man enthusiastically, "and I'll teach him to weave the _nito!_" "Huh! Get out! What are you dreaming about, grand-dad? Do you still think that the Popes even move their hands? The curate, being nothing more than a curate, only works in the mass--when he turns around! The Archbishop doesn't even turn around, for he says mass sitting down. So the Pope--the Pope says it in bed with a fan! What are you thinking about?" "Of nothing more, Petra, than that he know how to weave the _nito_. It would be well for him to be able to sell hats and cigar-cases so that he wouldn't have to beg alms, as the curate does here every year in the name of the Pope. It always fills me with compassion to see a saint poor, so I give all my savings." Another countryman here joined in the conversation, saying, "It's all settled, cumare, [95] my son has got to be a doctor, there's nothing like being a doctor!" "Doctor! What are you talking about, cumpare?" retorted Petra. "There's nothing like being a curate!" "A curate, pish! A curate? The doctor makes lots of money, the sick people worship him, cumare!" "Excuse me! The curate, by making three or four turns and saying _deminos pabiscum_, [96] eats God and makes money. All, even the women, tell him their secrets." "And the doctor? What do you think a doctor is? The doctor sees all that the women have, he feels the pulses of the _dalagas!_ I'd just like to be a doctor for a week!" "And the curate, perhaps the curate doesn't see what your doctor sees? Better still, you know the saying, 'the fattest chicken and the roundest leg for the curate!'" "What of that? Do the doctors eat dried fish? Do they soil their fingers eating salt?" "Does the curate dirty his hands as your doctors do? He has great estates and when he works he works with music and has sacristans to help him." "But the confessing, cumare? Isn't that work?" "No work about that! I'd just like to be confessing everybody! While we work and sweat to find out what our own neighbors are doing, the curate does nothing more than take a seat and they tell him everything. Sometimes he falls asleep, but he lets out two or three blessings and we are again the children of God! I'd just like to be a curate for one evening in Lent!" "But the preaching? You can't tell me that it's not work. Just look how the fat curate was sweating this morning," objected the rustic, who felt himself being beaten into retreat. "Preaching! Work to preach! Where's your judgment? I'd just like to be talking half a day from the pulpit, scolding and quarreling with everybody, without any one daring to reply, and be getting paid for it besides. I'd just like to be the curate for one morning when those who are in debt to me are attending mass! Look there now, how Padre Damaso gets fat with so much scolding and beating." Padre Damaso was, indeed, approaching with the gait of a heavy man. He was half smiling, but in such a malignant way that Ibarra, upon seeing him, lost the thread of his talk. The padre was greeted with some surprise but with signs of pleasure on the part of all except Ibarra. They were then at the dessert and the champagne was foaming in the glasses. Padre Damaso's smile became nervous when he saw Maria Clara seated at Crisostomo's right. He took a seat beside the alcalde and said in the midst of a significant silence, "Were you discussing something, gentlemen? Go ahead!" "We were at the toasts," answered the alcalde. "Señor Ibarra was mentioning all who have helped him in his philanthropic enterprise and was speaking of the architect when your Reverence--" "Well, I don't know anything about architecture," interrupted Padre Damaso, "but I laugh at architects and the fools who employ them. Here you have it--I drew the plan of this church and it's perfectly constructed, so an English jeweler who stopped in the convento one day assured me. To draw a plan one needs only to have two fingers' breadth of forehead." "Nevertheless," answered the alcalde, seeing that Ibarra was silent, "when we consider certain buildings, as, for example, this schoolhouse, we need an expert." "Get out with your experts!" exclaimed the priest with a sneer. "Only a fool needs experts! One must be more of a brute than the Indians, who build their own houses, not to know how to construct four walls and put a roof on top of them. That's all a schoolhouse is!" The guests gazed at Ibarra, who had turned pale, but he continued as if in conversation with Maria Clara. "But your Reverence should consider--" "See now," went on the Franciscan, not allowing the alcalde to continue, "look how one of our lay brothers, the most stupid that we have, has constructed a hospital, good, pretty, and cheap. He made them work hard and paid only eight cuartos a day even to those who had to come from other towns. He knew how to handle them, not like a lot of cranks and little mestizos who are spoiling them by paying three or four reals." "Does your Reverence say that he paid only eight cuartos? Impossible!" The alcalde was trying to change the course of the conversation. "Yes, sir, and those who pride themselves on being good Spaniards ought to imitate him. You see now, since the Suez Canal was opened, the corruption that has come in here. Formerly, when we had to double the Cape, neither so many vagabonds came here nor so many others went from here to become vagabonds." "But, Padre Damaso--" "You know well enough what the Indian is--just as soon as he gets a little learning he sets himself up as a doctor! All these little fellows that go to Europe--" "But, listen, your Reverence!" interrupted the alcalde, who was becoming nervous over the aggressiveness of such talk. "Every one ends up as he deserves," the friar continued. "The hand of God is manifest in the midst of it all, and one must be blind not to see it. Even in this life the fathers of such vipers receive their punishment, they die in jail ha, ha! As we might say, they have nowhere--" But he did not finish the sentence. Ibarra, livid, had been following him with his gaze and upon hearing this allusion to his father jumped up and dropped a heavy hand on the priest's head, so that he fell back stunned. The company was so filled with surprise and fright that no one made any movement to interfere. "Keep off!" cried the youth in a terrible voice, as he caught up a