The Social Cancer: A Complete English Version of Noli Me Tangere
Afterwards, the procession moved on, St. John proceeding along his
vale of tears. When the Virgin passed the house of Capitan Tiago a
heavenly song greeted her with the words of the archangel. It was
a voice tender, melodious, pleading, sighing out the _Ave Maria_
of Gounod to the accompaniment of a piano that prayed with it. The
music of the procession became hushed, the praying ceased, and even
Padre Salvi himself paused. The voice trembled and became plaintive,
expressing more than a salutation--rather a prayer and a protest.
Terror and melancholy settled down upon Ibarra's heart as he listened
to the voice from the window where he stood. He comprehended what
that suffering soul was expressing in a song and yet feared to ask
himself the cause of such sorrow. Gloomy and thoughtful, he turned
to the Captain-General.
"You will join me at the table," the latter said to him. "There we'll
talk about those boys who disappeared."
"Could I be the cause?" murmured the young man, staring without seeing
the Captain-General, whom he was following mechanically.
CHAPTER XXXIX
Doña Consolacion
Why were the windows closed in the house of the alferez? Where
were the masculine features and the flannel camisa of the Medusa or
Muse of the Civil Guard while the procession was passing? Had Doña
Consolacion realized how disagreeable were her forehead seamed with
thick veins that appeared to conduct not blood but vinegar and gall,
and the thick cigar that made a fit ornament for her purple lips,
and her envious leer, and yielding to a generous impulse had she
wished not to disturb the pleasure of the populace by her sinister
appearance? Ah, for her generous impulses existed in the Golden
Age! The house, showed neither lanterns nor banners and was gloomy
precisely because the town was making merry, as Sinang said, and but
for the sentinel walking before the door appeared to be uninhabited.
A dim light shone in the disordered sala, rendering transparent
the dirty concha-panes on which the cobwebs had fastened and the
dust had become incrusted. The lady of the house, according to
her indolent custom, was dozing on a wide sofa. She was dressed as
usual, that is, badly and horribly: tied round her head a pañuelo,
from beneath which escaped thin locks of tangled hair, a camisa
of blue flannel over another which must once have been white, and
a faded skirt which showed the outlines of her thin, flat thighs,
placed one over the other and shaking feverishly. From her mouth
issued little clouds of smoke which she puffed wearily in whatever
direction she happened to be looking when she opened her eyes. If at
that moment Don Francisco de Cañamaque [107] could have seen her, he
would have taken her for a cacique of the town or the _mankukúlam_,
and then decorated his discovery with commentaries in the vernacular
of the markets, invented by him for her particular use.
That morning she had not attended mass, not because she had not so
desired, for on the contrary she had wished to show herself to the
multitude and to hear the sermon, but her spouse had not permitted
her to do so, his refusal being accompanied as usual by two or three
insults, oaths, and threats of kicking. The alferez knew that his
mate dressed ridiculously and had the appearance of what is known as a
"_querida_ of the soldiers," so he did not care to expose her to the
gaze of strangers and persons from the capital. But she did not so
understand it. She knew that she was beautiful and attractive, that she
had the airs of a queen and dressed much better and with more splendor
than Maria Clara herself, who wore a tapis while she went in a flowing
skirt. It was therefore necessary for the alferez to threaten her,
"Either shut up, or I'll kick you back to your damned town!" Doña
Consolacion did not care to return to her town at the toe of a boot,
but she meditated revenge.
Never had the dark face of this lady been such as to inspire confidence
in any one, not even when she painted, but that morning it greatly
worried the servants, especially when they saw her move about the house
from one part to another, silently, as if meditating something terrible
or malign. Her glance reflected the look that springs from the eyes of
a serpent when caught and about to be crushed; it was cold, luminous,
and penetrating, with something fascinating, loathsome, and cruel in
it. The most insignificant error, the least unusual noise, drew from
her a vile insult that struck into the soul, but no one answered her,
for to excuse oneself would have been an additional fault.
So the day passed. Not encountering any obstacle that would block her
way,--her husband had been invited out,--she became saturated with
bile, the cells of her whole organism seemed to become charged with
electricity which threatened to burst in a storm of hate. Everything
about her folded up as do the flowers at the first breath of the
hurricane, so she met with no resistance nor found any point or high
place to discharge her evil humor. The soldiers and servants kept away
from her. That she might not hear the sounds of rejoicing outside she
had ordered the windows closed and charged the sentinel to let no one
enter. She tied a handkerchief around her head as if to keep it from
bursting and, in spite of the fact that the sun was still shining,
ordered the lamps to be lighted.
Sisa, as we saw, had been arrested as a disturber of the peace
and taken to the barracks. The alferez was not then present, so
the unfortunate woman had had to spend the night there seated on a
bench in an abandoned attitude. The next day the alferez saw her,
and fearing for her in those days of confusion nor caring to risk a
disagreeable scene, he had charged the soldiers to look after her,
to treat her kindly, and to give her something to eat. Thus the
madwoman spent two days.
Tonight, whether the nearness to the house of Capitan Tiago had brought
to her Maria Clara's sad song or whether other recollections awoke
in her old melodies, whatever the cause, Sisa also began to sing in a
sweet and melancholy voice the _kundíman_ of her youth. The soldiers
heard her and fell silent; those airs awoke old memories of the days
before they had been corrupted. Doña Consolacion also heard them in her
tedium, and on learning who it was that sang, after a few moments of
meditation, ordered that Sisa be brought to her instantly. Something
like a smile wandered over her dry lips.
When Sisa was brought in she came calmly, showing neither wonder nor
fear. She seemed to see no lady or mistress, and this wounded the
vanity of the Muse, who endeavored to inspire respect and fear. She
coughed, made a sign to the soldiers to leave her, and taking down
her husband's whip, said to the crazy woman in a sinister tone,
"Come on, _magcantar icau!_" [108]
Naturally, Sisa did not understand such Tagalog, and this ignorance
calmed the Medusa's wrath, for one of the beautiful qualities of this
lady was to try not to know Tagalog, or at least to appear not to know
it. Speaking it the worst possible, she would thus give herself the
air of a genuine _orofea_, [109] as she was accustomed to say. But
she did well, for if she martyrized Tagalog, Spanish fared no better
with her, either in regard to grammar or pronunciation, in spite of
her husband, the chairs and the shoes, all of which had done what
they could to teach her.
One of the words that had cost her more effort than the hieroglyphics
cost Champollion was the name _Filipinas_. The story goes that on
the day after her wedding, when she was talking with her husband, who
was then a corporal, she had said _Pilipinas_. The corporal thought
it his duty to correct her, so he said, slapping her on the head,
"Say _Felipinas_, woman! Don't be stupid! Don't you know that's what
your damned country is called, from _Felipe?_"
The woman, dreaming through her honeymoon, wished to obey and said
_Felepinas_. To the corporal it seemed that she was getting nearer to
it, so he increased the slaps and reprimanded her thus: "But, woman,
can't you pronounce _Felipe?_ Don't forget it; you know the king,
Don Felipe--the fifth--. Say _Felipe_, and add to it _nas_, which
in Latin means 'islands of Indians,' and you have the name of your
damned country!"
Consolacion, at that time a washerwoman, patted her bruises and
repeated with symptoms of losing her patience, "Fe-li-pe, Felipe--nas,
Fe-li-pe-nas, Felipinas, so?"
The corporal saw visions. How could it be _Felipenas_ instead of
_Felipinas?_ One of two things: either it was _Felipenas_ or it was
necessary to say _Felipi!_ So that day he very prudently dropped the
subject. Leaving his wife, he went to consult the books. Here his
astonishment reached a climax: he rubbed his eyes--let's see--slowly,
now! _F-i-l-i-p-i-n-a-s_, Filipinas! So all the well-printed books
gave it--neither he nor his wife was right!
"How's this?" he murmured. "Can history lie? Doesn't this book say that
Alonso Saavedra gave the country that name in honor of the prince,
Don Felipe? How was that name corrupted? Can it be that this Alonso
Saavedra was an Indian?" [110]
With these doubts he went to consult the sergeant Gomez, who, as
a youth, had wanted to be a curate. Without deigning to look at
the corporal the sergeant blew out a mouthful of smoke and answered
with great pompousness, "In ancient times it was pronounced _Filipi_
instead of _Felipe_. But since we moderns have become Frenchified we
can't endure two _i's_ in succession, so cultured people, especially
in Madrid--you've never been in Madrid?--cultured people, as I say,
have begun to change the first _i_ to _e_ in many words. This is
called modernizing yourself."
The poor corporal had never been in Madrid--here was the cause of
his failure to understand the riddle: what things are learned in
Madrid! "So now it's proper to say--"
"In the ancient style, man! This country's not yet cultured! In the
ancient style, _Filipinas!_" exclaimed Gomez disdainfully.
The corporal, even if he was a bad philologist, was yet a good
husband. What he had just learned his spouse must also know, so he
proceeded with her education: "Consola, what do you call your damned
country?"
"What should I call it? Just what you taught me: _Felifinas!_"
"I'll throw a chair at you, you ----! Yesterday you pronounced it
even better in the modern style, but now it's proper to pronounce it
like an ancient: _Feli_, I mean, _Filipinas!_"
"Remember that I'm no ancient! What are you thinking about?"
"Never mind! Say _Filipinas!_"
"I don't want to. I'm no ancient baggage, scarcely thirty years
old!" she replied, rolling up her sleeves and preparing herself for
the fray.
"Say it, you ----, or I'll throw this chair at you!"
Consolacion saw the movement, reflected, then began to stammer with
heavy breaths, "_Feli-, Fele-, File--_"
Pum! Crack! The chair finished the word. So the lesson ended in
fisticuffs, scratchings, slaps. The corporal caught her by the hair;
she grabbed his goatee, but was unable to bite because of her loose
teeth. He let out a yell, released her and begged her pardon. Blood
began to flow, one eye got redder than the other, a camisa was torn
into shreds, many things came to light, but not _Filipinas_.
Similar incidents occurred every time the question of language came
up. The corporal, watching her linguistic progress, sorrowfully
calculated that in ten years his mate would have completely forgotten
how to talk, and this was about what really came to pass. When they
were married she still knew Tagalog and could make herself understood
in Spanish, but now, at the time of our story, she no longer spoke any
language. She had become so addicted to expressing herself by means