The Social Cancer: A Complete English Version of Noli Me Tangere
aunt carrying cups and glasses.
"Ah!" he murmured, "it seems that she has been taken sick only."
Aunt Isabel at that moment closed the windows and the graceful shadow
was no longer to be seen. The curate moved away without heeding the
crowd. He had before his eyes the beautiful form of a maiden sleeping
and breathing sweetly. Her eyelids were shaded by long lashes which
formed graceful curves like those of the Virgins of Raphael, the
little mouth was smiling, all the features breathed forth virginity,
purity, and innocence. That countenance formed a sweet vision in the
midst of the white coverings of her bed like the head of a cherub
among the clouds. His imagination went still further--but who can
write what a burning brain can imagine?
Perhaps only the newspaper correspondent, who concluded his account
of the fiesta and its accompanying incidents in the following manner:
"A thousand thanks, infinite thanks, to the opportune and active
intervention of the Very Reverend Padre Fray Bernardo Salvi, who,
defying every danger in the midst of the unbridled mob, without hat
or cane, calmed the wrath of the crowd, using only his persuasive
word with the majesty and authority that are never lacking to a
minister of a Religion of Peace. With unparalleled self-abnegation
this virtuous priest tore himself from sweet repose, such as every
good conscience like his enjoys, and rushed to protect his flock
from the least harm. The people of San Diego will hardly forget this
sublime deed of their heroic Pastor, remembering to hold themselves
grateful to him for all eternity!"
CHAPTER XLI
Two Visits
Ibarra was in such a state of mind that he found it impossible to
sleep, so to distract his attention from the sad thoughts which are
so exaggerated during the night-hours he set to work in his lonely
cabinet. Day found him still making mixtures and combinations, to the
action of which he subjected pieces of bamboo and other substances,
placing them afterwards in numbered and sealed jars.
A servant entered to announce the arrival of a man who had the
appearance of being from the country. "Show him in," said Ibarra
without looking around.
Elias entered and remained standing in silence.
"Ah, it's you!" exclaimed Ibarra in Tagalog when he recognized
him. "Excuse me for making you wait, I didn't notice that it was
you. I'm making an important experiment."
"I don't want to disturb you," answered the youthful pilot. "I've
come first to ask you if there is anything I can do for you in the
province, of Batangas, for which I am leaving immediately, and also
to bring you some bad news."
Ibarra questioned him with a look.
"Capitan Tiago's daughter is ill," continued Elias quietly, "but
not seriously."
"That's what I feared," murmured Ibarra in a weak voice. "Do you know
what is the matter with her?"
"A fever. Now, if you have nothing to command--"
"Thank you, my friend, no. I wish you a pleasant journey. But first
let me ask you a question--if it is indiscreet, do not answer."
Elias bowed.
"How were you able to quiet the disturbance last night?" asked Ibarra,
looking steadily at him.
"Very easily," answered Elias in the most natural manner. "The leaders
of the commotion were two brothers whose father died from a beating
given him by the Civil Guard. One day I had the good fortune to
save them from the same hands into which their father had fallen,
and both are accordingly grateful to me. I appealed to them last
night and they undertook to dissuade the rest."
"And those two brothers whose father died from the beating--"
"Will end as their father did," replied Elias in a low voice. "When
misfortune has once singled out a family all its members must
perish,--when the lightning strikes a tree the whole is reduced
to ashes."
Ibarra fell silent on hearing this, so Elias took his leave. When
the youth found himself alone he lost the serene self-possession he
had maintained in the pilot's presence. His sorrow pictured itself
on his countenance. "I, I have made her suffer," he murmured.
He dressed himself quickly and descended the stairs. A small man,
dressed in mourning, with a large scar on his left cheek, saluted
him humbly, and detained him on his way.
"What do you want?" asked Ibarra.
"Sir, my name is Lucas, and I'm the brother of the man who was killed
yesterday."
"Ah, you have my sympathy. Well?"
"Sir, I want to know how much you're going to pay my brother's family."
"Pay?" repeated the young man, unable to conceal his disgust. "We'll
talk of that later. Come back this afternoon, I'm in a hurry now."
"Only tell me how much you're willing to pay," insisted Lucas.
"I've told you that we'll talk about that some other time. I haven't
time now," repeated Ibarra impatiently.
"You haven't time now, sir?" asked Lucas bitterly, placing himself
in front of the young man. "You haven't time to consider the dead?"
"Come this afternoon, my good man," replied Ibarra, restraining
himself. "I'm on my way now to visit a sick person."
"Ah, for the sick you forget the dead? Do you think that because we
are poor--"
Ibarra looked at him and interrupted, "Don't try my patience!" then
went on his way.
Lucas stood looking after him with a smile full of hate. "It's easy to
see that you're the grandson of the man who tied my father out in the
sun," he muttered between his teeth. "You still have the same blood."
Then with a change of tone he added, "But, if you pay well--friends!"
CHAPTER XLII
The Espadañas
The fiesta is over. The people of the town have again found, as in
every other year, that their treasury is poorer, that they have worked,
sweated, and stayed awake much without really amusing themselves,
without gaining any new friends, and, in a word, that they have dearly
bought their dissipation and their headaches. But this matters nothing,
for the same will be done next year, the same the coming century,
since it has always been the custom.
In Capitan Tiago's house sadness reigns. All the windows are closed,
the inmates move about noiselessly, and only in the kitchen do they
dare to speak in natural tones. Maria Clara, the soul of the house,
lies sick in bed and her condition is reflected in all the faces,
as the sorrows of the mind may be read in the countenance of an
individual.
"Which seems best to you, Isabel, shall I make a poor-offering to the
cross of Tunasan or to the cross of Matahong?" asks the afflicted
father in a low voice. "The Tunasan cross grows while the Matahong
cross sweats which do you think is more miraculous?"
Aunt Isabel reflects, shakes her head, and murmurs, "To grow, to grow
is a greater miracle than to sweat. All of us sweat, but not all of
us grow."
"That's right, Isabel; but remember that to sweat for the wood of
which bench-legs are made to sweat--is not a small miracle. Come,
the best thing will be to make poor-offerings to both crosses, so
neither will resent it, and Maria will get better sooner. Are the
rooms ready? You know that with the doctors is coming a new gentleman,
a distant relative of Padre Damaso's. Nothing should be lacking."
At the other end of the dining-room are the two cousins, Sinang and
Victoria, who have come to keep the sick girl company. Andeng is
helping them clean a silver tea-set.
"Do you know Dr. Espadaña?" the foster-sister of Maria Clara asks
Victoria curiously.
"No," replies the latter, "the only thing that I know about him is
that he charges high, according to Capitan Tiago."
"Then he must be good!" exclaims Andeng. "The one who performed an
operation on Doña Maria charged high; so he was learned."
"Silly!" retorts Sinang. "Every one who charges high is not
learned. Look at Dr. Guevara; after performing a bungling operation
that cost the life of both mother and child, he charged the widower
fifty pesos. The thing to know is how to charge!"
"What do you know about it?" asks her cousin, nudging her.
"Don't I know? The husband, who is a poor sawyer, after losing his
wife had to lose his home also, for the alcalde, being a friend of
the doctor's, made him pay. Don't I know about it, when my father
lent him the money to make the journey to Santa Cruz?" [114]
The sound of a carriage stopping in front of the house put an end
to these conversations. Capitan Tiago, followed by Aunt Isabel, ran
down the steps to welcome the new arrivals: the Doctor Don Tiburcio
de Espadaña, his señora the _Doctora_ Doña Victorina de los Reyes
_de_ De Espadaña, and a young Spaniard of pleasant countenance and
agreeable aspect.
Doña Victorina was attired in a loose silk gown embroidered with
flowers and a hat with a huge parrot half-crushed between blue and
red ribbons. The dust of the road mingled with the rice-powder on
her cheeks seemed to accentuate her wrinkles. As at the time we saw
her in Manila, she now supported her lame husband on her arm.
"I have the pleasure of introducing to you our cousin, Don Alfonso
Linares de Espadaña," said Doña Victorina, indicating their young
companion. "The gentleman is a godson of a relative of Padre Damaso's
and has been private secretary to all the ministers."
The young man bowed politely and Capitan Tiago came very near to
kissing his hand.
While their numerous trunks and traveling-bags are being carried
in and Capitan Tiago is conducting them to their rooms, let us talk
a little of this couple whose acquaintance we made slightly in the
first chapters.
Doña Victorina was a lady of forty and five winters, which were
equivalent to thirty and two summers according to her arithmetical
calculations. She had been beautiful in her youth, having had, as
she used to say, 'good flesh,' but in the ecstasies of contemplating
herself she had looked with disdain on her many Filipino admirers,
since her aspirations were toward another race. She had refused to
bestow on any one her little white hand, not indeed from distrust,
for not a few times had she given jewelry and gems of great value to
various foreign and Spanish adventurers. Six months before the time of
our story she had seen realized her most beautiful dream,--the dream
of her whole life,--for which she might scorn the fond illusions
of her youth and even the promises of love that Capitan Tiago had
in other days whispered in her ear or sung in some serenade. Late,
it is true, had the dream been realized, but Doña Victorina, who,
although she spoke the language badly, was more Spanish than Augustina
of Saragossa, [115] understood the proverb, "Better late than never,"
and found consolation in repeating it to herself. "Absolute happiness
does not exist on earth," was another favorite proverb of hers,
but she never used both together before other persons.
Having passed her first, second, third, and fourth youth in casting
her nets in the sea of the world for the object of her vigils, she had
been compelled at last to content herself with what fate was willing
to apportion her. Had the poor woman been only thirty and one instead
of thirty and two summers--the difference according to her mode of
reckoning was great--she would have restored to Destiny the award it
offered her to wait for another more suited to her taste, but since
man proposes and necessity disposes, she saw herself obliged in her
great need for a husband to content herself with a poor fellow who had
been cast out from Estremadura [116] and who, after wandering about
the world for six or seven years like a modern Ulysses, had at last
found on the island of Luzon hospitality and a withered Calypso for
his better half. This unhappy mortal, by name Tiburcio Espadaña, was
only thirty-five years of age and looked like an old man, yet he was,
nevertheless, younger than Doña Victorina, who was only thirty-two. The