The Social Cancer - 09

we cease to be rich we shall no longer be able to control consciences."
"But we shall always have our estates, our property."
"All will be lost as we lost them in Europe! And the worst of it is
that we are working toward our own ruin. For example, this unrestrained
eagerness to raise arbitrarily the rents on our lands each year,
this eagerness which I have so vainly combated in all the chapters,
this will ruin us! The native sees himself obliged to purchase farms
in other places, which bring him as good returns as ours, or better. I
fear that we are already on the decline; _quos vult perdere Jupiter
dementat prius_. [49] For this reason we should not increase our
burden; the people are already murmuring. You have decided well:
let us leave the others to settle their accounts in that quarter;
let us preserve the prestige that remains to us, and as we shall soon
appear before God, let us wash our hands of it--and may the God of
mercy have pity on our weakness!"
"So your Reverence thinks that the rent or tax--"
"Let's not talk any more about money," interrupted the sick man with
signs of disgust. "You say that the lieutenant threatened to Padre
Damaso that--"
"Yes, Padre," broke in Fray Sibyla with a faint smile, "but this
morning I saw him and he told me that he was sorry for what occurred
last night, that the sherry had gone to his head, and that he believed
that Padre Damaso was in the same condition. 'And your threat?' I
asked him jokingly. 'Padre,' he answered me, 'I know how to keep my
word when my honor is affected, but I am not nor have ever been an
informer--for that reason I wear only two stars.'"
After they had conversed a while longer on unimportant subjects,
Fray Sibyla took his departure.
It was true that the lieutenant had not gone to the Palace, but the
Captain-General heard what had occurred. While talking with some
of his aides about the allusions that the Manila newspapers were
making to him under the names of comets and celestial apparitions,
one of them told him about the affair of Padre Damaso, with a somewhat
heightened coloring although substantially correct as to matter.
"From whom did you learn this?" asked his Excellency, smiling.
"From Laruja, who was telling it this morning in the office."
The Captain-General again smiled and said: "A woman or a friar can't
insult one. I contemplate living in peace for the time that I shall
remain in this country and I don't want any more quarrels with men who
wear skirts. Besides, I've learned that the Provincial has scoffed
at my orders. I asked for the removal of this friar as a punishment
and they transferred him to a better town 'monkish tricks,' as we
say in Spain."
But when his Excellency found himself alone he stopped smiling. "Ah,
if this people were not so stupid, I would put a curb on their
Reverences," he sighed to himself. "But every people deserves its fate,
so let's do as everybody else does."
Capitan Tiago, meanwhile, had concluded his interview with Padre
Damaso, or rather, to speak more exactly, Padre Damaso had concluded
with him.
"So now you are warned!" said the Franciscan on leaving. "All this
could have been avoided if you had consulted me beforehand, if you had
not lied when I asked you. Try not to play any more foolish tricks,
and trust your protector."
Capitan Tiago walked up and down the sala a few times, meditating
and sighing. Suddenly, as if a happy thought had occurred to him,
he ran to the oratory and extinguished the candles and the lamp that
had been lighted for Ibarra's safety. "The way is long and there's
yet time," he muttered.


CHAPTER X
The Town

Almost on the margin of the lake, in the midst of meadows and
paddy-fields, lies the town of San Diego. [50] From it sugar, rice,
coffee, and fruits are either exported or sold for a small part of
their value to the Chinese, who exploit the simplicity and vices of
the native farmers.
When on a clear day the boys ascend to the upper part of the church
tower, which is beautified by moss and creeping plants, they break
out into joyful exclamations at the beauty of the scene spread out
before them. In the midst of the clustering roofs of nipa, tiles,
corrugated iron, and palm leaves, separated by groves and gardens,
each one is able to discover his own home, his little nest. Everything
serves as a mark: a tree, that tamarind with its light foliage,
that coco palm laden with nuts, like the Astarte Genetrix, or the
Diana of Ephesus with her numerous breasts, a bending bamboo, an
areca palm, or a cross. Yonder is the river, a huge glassy serpent
sleeping on a green carpet, with rocks, scattered here and there
along its sandy channel, that break its current into ripples. There,
the bed is narrowed between high banks to which the gnarled trees
cling with bared roots; here, it becomes a gentle slope where the
stream widens and eddies about. Farther away, a small hut built on the
edge of the high bank seems to defy the winds, the heights and the
depths, presenting with its slender posts the appearance of a huge,
long-legged bird watching for a reptile to seize upon. Trunks of palm
or other trees with their bark still on them unite the banks by a
shaky and infirm foot-bridge which, if not a very secure crossing,
is nevertheless a wonderful contrivance for gymnastic exercises in
preserving one's balance, a thing not to be despised. The boys bathing
in the river are amused by the difficulties of the old woman crossing
with a basket on her head or by the antics of the old man who moves
tremblingly and loses his staff in the water.
But that which always attracts particular notice is what might be
called a peninsula of forest in the sea of cultivated fields. There
in that wood are century-old trees with hollow trunks, which die only
when their high tops are struck and set on fire by the lightning--and
it is said that the fire always checks itself and dies out in the same
spot. There are huge points of rock which time and nature are clothing
with velvet garments of moss. Layer after layer of dust settles in
the hollows, the rains beat it down, and the birds bring seeds. The
tropical vegetation spreads out luxuriantly in thickets and underbrush,
while curtains of interwoven vines hang from the branches of the trees
and twine about their roots or spread along the ground, as if Flora
were not yet satisfied but must place plant above plant. Mosses and
fungi live upon the cracked trunks, and orchids--graceful guests--twine
in loving embrace with the foliage of the hospitable trees.
Strange legends exist concerning this wood, which is held in awe by
the country folk. The most credible account, and therefore the one
least known and believed, seems to be this. When the town was still
a collection of miserable huts with the grass growing abundantly in
the so-called streets, at the time when the wild boar and deer roamed
about during the nights, there arrived in the place one day an old,
hollow-eyed Spaniard, who spoke Tagalog rather well. After looking
about and inspecting the land, he finally inquired for the owners of
this wood, in which there were hot springs. Some persons who claimed to
be such presented themselves, and the old man acquired it in exchange
for clothes, jewels, and a sum of money. Soon afterward he disappeared
mysteriously. The people thought that he had been spirited away,
when a bad odor from the neighboring wood attracted the attention of
some herdsmen. Tracing this, they found the decaying corpse of the
old Spaniard hanging from the branch of a balete tree. [51] In life
he had inspired fear by his deep, hollow voice, his sunken eyes, and
his mirthless laugh, but now, dead by his own act, he disturbed the
sleep of the women. Some threw the jewels into the river and burned the
clothes, and from the time that the corpse was buried at the foot of
the balete itself, no one willingly ventured near the spot. A belated
herdsman looking for some of his strayed charges told of lights that
he had seen there, and when some venturesome youths went to the place
they heard mournful cries. To win the smiles of his disdainful lady,
a forlorn lover agreed to spend the night there and in proof to wrap
around the trunk a long piece of rattan, but he died of a quick fever
that seized him the very next day. Stories and legends still cluster
about the place.
A few months after the finding of the old Spaniard's body there
appeared a youth, apparently a Spanish mestizo, who said that
he was the son of the deceased. He established himself in the
place and devoted his attention to agriculture, especially the
raising of indigo. Don Saturnino was a silent young man with a
violent disposition, even cruel at times, yet he was energetic and
industrious. He surrounded the grave of his father with a wall,
but visited it only at rare intervals. When he was along in years,
he married a young woman from Manila, and she became the mother of
Don Rafael, the father of Crisostomo. From his youth Don Rafael was a
favorite with the country people. The agricultural methods introduced
and encouraged by his father spread rapidly, new settlers poured in,
the Chinese came, and the settlement became a village with a native
priest. Later the village grew into a town, the priest died, and Fray
Damaso came.
All this time the tomb and the land around it remained
unmolested. Sometimes a crowd of boys armed with clubs and stones would
become bold enough to wander into the place to gather guavas, papayas,
lomboy, and other fruits, but it frequently happened that when their
sport was at its height, or while they gazed in awed silence at the
rotting piece of rope which still swung from the branch, stones would
fall, coming from they knew not where. Then with cries of "The old
man! The old man!" they would throw away fruit and clubs, jump from
the trees, and hurry between the rocks and through the thickets;
nor would they stop running until they were well out of the wood,
some pale and breathless, others weeping, and only a few laughing.


CHAPTER XI
The Rulers

Divide and rule.
(_The New Machiavelli._)

Who were the caciques of the town?
Don Rafael, when alive, even though he was the richest, owned more
land, and was the patron of nearly everybody, had not been one of
them. As he was modest and depreciated the value of his own deeds,
no faction in his favor had ever been formed in the town, and we
have already seen how the people all rose up against him when they
saw him hesitate upon being attacked.
Could it be Capitan Tiago? True it was that when he went there he
was received with an orchestra by his debtors, who banqueted him and
heaped gifts upon him. The finest fruits burdened his table and a
quarter of deer or wild boar was his share of the hunt. If he found
the horse of a debtor beautiful, half an hour afterwards it was in
his stable. All this was true, but they laughed at him behind his
back and in secret called him "Sacristan Tiago."
Perhaps it was the gobernadorcillo? [52] No, for he was only an
unhappy mortal who commanded not, but obeyed; who ordered not, but
was ordered; who drove not, but was driven. Nevertheless, he had
to answer to the alcalde for having commanded, ordered, and driven,
just as if he were the originator of everything. Yet be it said to
his credit that he had never presumed upon or usurped such honors,
which had cost him five thousand pesos and many humiliations. But
considering the income it brought him, it was cheap.
Well then, might it be God? Ah, the good God disturbed neither the
consciences nor the sleep of the inhabitants. At least, He did not
make them tremble, and if by chance He might have been mentioned in
a sermon, surely they would have sighed longingly, "Oh, that only
there were a God!" To the good Lord they paid little attention, as
the saints gave them enough to do. For those poor folk God had come
to be like those unfortunate monarchs who are surrounded by courtiers
to whom alone the people render homage.
San Diego was a kind of Rome: not the Rome of the time when the cunning
Romulus laid out its walls with a plow, nor of the later time when,
bathed in its own and others' blood, it dictated laws to the world--no,
it was a Rome of our own times with the difference that in place of
marble monuments and colosseums it had its monuments of sawali and its
cockpit of nipa. The curate was the Pope in the Vatican; the alferez
of the Civil Guard, the King of Italy on the Quirinal: all, it must be
understood, on a scale of nipa and bamboo. Here, as there, continual
quarreling went on, since each wished to be the master and considered
the other an intruder. Let us examine the characteristics of each.
Fray Bernardo Salvi was that silent young Franciscan of whom we
have spoken before. In his habits and manners he was quite different
from his brethren and even from his predecessor, the violent Padre
Damaso. He was thin and sickly, habitually pensive, strict in the
fulfilment of his religious duties, and careful of his good name. In
a month after his arrival nearly every one in the town had joined
the Venerable Tertiary Order, to the great distress of its rival,
the Society of the Holy Rosary. His soul leaped with joy to see about
each neck four or five scapularies and around each waist a knotted
girdle, and to behold the procession of corpses and ghosts in _guingón_
habits. The senior sacristan made a small fortune selling--or giving
away as alms, we should say--all things necessary for the salvation
of the soul and the warfare against the devil, as it is well known
that this spirit, which formerly had the temerity to contradict God
himself face to face and to doubt His words, as is related in the
holy book of Job, who carried our Lord Christ through the air as
afterwards in the Dark Ages he carried the ghosts, and continues,
according to report, to carry the _asuang_ of the Philippines, now
seems to have become so shamefaced that he cannot endure the sight of
a piece of painted cloth and that he fears the knots on a cord. But
all this proves nothing more than that there is progress on this side
also and that the devil is backward, or at least a conservative,
as are all who dwell in darkness. Otherwise, we must attribute to
him the weakness of a fifteen-year-old girl.
As we have said, Fray Salvi was very assiduous in the fulfilment of his
duties, too assiduous, the alferez thought. While he was preaching--he
was very fond of preaching--the doors of the church were closed,
wherein he was like Nero, who allowed no one to leave the theater while
he was singing. But the former did it for the salvation and the latter
for the corruption of souls. Fray Salvi rarely resorted to blows,
but was accustomed to punish every shortcoming of his subordinates
with fines. In this respect he was very different from Padre Damaso,
who had been accustomed to settle everything with his fists or a cane,
administering such chastisement with the greatest good-will. For this,
however, he should not be judged too harshly, as he was firm in the
belief that the Indian could be managed only by beating him, just
as was affirmed by a friar who knew enough to write books, and Padre
Damaso never disputed anything that he saw in print, a credulity of
which many might have reason to complain. Although Fray Salvi made
little use of violence, yet, as an old wiseacre of the town said,
what he lacked in quantity he made up in quality. But this should
not be counted against him, for the fasts and abstinences thinned his
blood and unstrung his nerves and, as the people said, the wind got
into his head. Thus it came about that it was not possible to learn
from the condition of the sacristans' backs whether the curate was
fasting or feasting.
The only rival of this spiritual power, with tendencies toward the
temporal, was, as we have said, the alferez: the only one, since the
women told how the devil himself would flee from the curate, because,
having one day dared to tempt him, he was caught, tied to a bedpost,
soundly whipped with a rope, and set at liberty only after nine
days. As a consequence, any one who after this would still be the
enemy of such a man, deserved to fall into worse repute than even
the weak and unwary devils.
But the alferez deserved his fate. His wife was an old Filipina of
abundant rouge and paint, known as Doña Consolacion--although her
husband and some others called her by quite another name. The alferez
revenged his conjugal misfortunes on his own person by getting so
drunk that he made a tank of himself, or by ordering his soldiers to
drill in the sun while he remained in the shade, or, more frequently,
by beating up his consort, who, if she was not a lamb of God to
take away one's sins, at least served to lay up for her spouse many
torments in Purgatory--if perchance he should get there, a matter of
doubt to the devout women. As if for the fun of it, these two used to
beat each other up beautifully, giving free shows to the neighborhood
with vocal and instrumental accompaniments, four-handed, soft, loud,
with pedal and all.
Whenever these scandals reached the ears of Padre Salvi, he would
smile, cross himself, and recite a paternoster. They called him a
grafter, a hypocrite, a Carlist, and a miser: he merely smiled and
recited more prayers. The alferez had a little anecdote which he
always related to the occasional Spaniards who visited him:
"Are you going over to the convento to visit the sanctimonious rascal
there, the little curate? Yes! Well, if he offers you chocolate which
I doubt--but if he offers it remember this: if he calls to the servant
and says, 'Juan, make a cup of chocolate, _eh!_' then stay without
fear; but if he calls out, 'Juan, make a cup of chocolate, _ah!_'
then take your hat and leave on a run."
"What!" the startled visitor would ask, "does he poison
people? _Carambas!_"
"No, man, not at all!"
"What then?"
"'Chocolate_, eh!_' means thick and rich, while 'chocolate, _ah!_'
means watered and thin."
But we are of the opinion that this was a slander on the part of
the alferez, since the same story is told of many curates. At least,
it may be a thing peculiar to the Order.
To make trouble for the curate, the soldier, at the instigation of his
wife, would prohibit any one from walking abroad after nine o'clock at
night. Doña Consolacion would then claim that she had seen the curate,
disguised in a piña camisa and salakot, walking about late. Fray Salvi
would take his revenge in a holy manner. Upon seeing the alferez enter
the church he would innocently order the sacristan to close all the
doors, and would then go up into the pulpit and preach until the very
saints closed their eyes and even the wooden dove above his head,
the image of the Holy Ghost, murmured for mercy. But the alferez,
like all the unregenerate, did not change his ways for this; he would
go away cursing, and as soon as he was able to catch a sacristan, or
one of the curate's servants, he would arrest him, give him a beating,
and make him scrub the floor of the barracks and that of his own house,
which at such times was put in a decent condition. On going to pay
the fine imposed by the curate for his absence, the sacristan would
explain the cause. Fray Salvi would listen in silence, take the money,
and at once turn out his goats and sheep so that they might graze
in the alferez's garden, while he himself looked up a new text for
another longer and more edifying sermon. But these were only little
pleasantries, and if the two chanced to meet they would shake hands
and converse politely.
When her husband was sleeping off the wine he had drunk, or was
snoring through the siesta, and she could not quarrel with him, Doña
Consolacion, in a blue flannel camisa, with a big cigar in her mouth,
would take her stand at the window. She could not endure the young
people, so from there she would scrutinize and mock the passing girls,
who, being afraid of her, would hurry by in confusion, holding their
breath the while, and not daring to raise their eyes. One great virtue
Doña Consolation possessed, and this was that she had evidently never
looked in a mirror.
These were the rulers of the town of San Diego.


CHAPTER XII
All Saints

The one thing perhaps that indisputably distinguishes man from the
brute creation is the attention which he pays to those who have passed
away and, wonder of wonders! this characteristic seems to be more
deeply rooted in proportion to the lack of civilization. Historians
relate that the ancient inhabitants of the Philippines venerated and
deified their ancestors; but now the contrary is true, and the dead
have to entrust themselves to the living. It is also related that
the people of New Guinea preserve the bones of their dead in chests
and maintain communication with them. The greater part of the peoples
of Asia, Africa, and America offer them the finest products of their
kitchens or dishes of what was their favorite food when alive, and
give banquets at which they believe them to be present. The Egyptians
raised up palaces and the Mussulmans built shrines, but the masters
in these things, those who have most clearly read the human heart,
are the people of Dahomey. These negroes know that man is revengeful,
so they consider that nothing will more content the dead than to
sacrifice all his enemies upon his grave, and, as man is curious and
may not know how to entertain himself in the other life, each year
they send him a newsletter under the skin of a beheaded slave.
We ourselves differ from all the rest. In spite of the inscriptions on
the tombs, hardly any one believes that the dead rest, and much less,
that they rest in peace. The most optimistic fancies his forefathers
still roasting in purgatory and, if it turns out that he himself be
not completely damned, he will yet be able to associate with them for
many years. If any one would contradict let him visit the churches and
cemeteries of the country on All Saints' day and he will be convinced.
Now that we are in San Diego let us visit its cemetery, which is
located in the midst of paddy-fields, there toward the west--not a
city, merely a village of the dead, approached by a path dusty in dry
weather and navigable on rainy days. A wooden gate and a fence half
of stone and half of bamboo stakes, appear to separate it from the
abode of the living but not from the curate's goats and some of the
pigs of the neighborhood, who come and go making explorations among the
tombs and enlivening the solitude with their presence. In the center of
this enclosure rises a large wooden cross set on a stone pedestal. The
storms have doubled over the tin plate for the inscription INRI, and
the rains have effaced the letters. At the foot of the cross, as on
the real Golgotha, is a confused heap of skulls and bones which the
indifferent grave-digger has thrown from the graves he digs, and there
they will probably await, not the resurrection of the dead, but the
coming of the animals to defile them. Round about may be noted signs
of recent excavations; here the earth is sunken, there it forms a low
mound. There grow in all their luxuriance the _tarambulo_ to prick
the feet with its spiny berries and the _pandakaki_ to add its odor
to that of the cemetery, as if the place did not have smells enough
already. Yet the ground is sprinkled with a few little flowers which,
like those skulls, are known only to their Creator; their petals wear
a pale smile and their fragrance is the fragrance of the tombs. The
grass and creepers fill up the corners or climb over the walls and
niches to cover and beautify the naked ugliness and in places even
penetrate into the fissures made by the earthquakes, so as to hide
from sight the revered hollowness of the sepulcher.
At the time we enter, the people have driven the animals away, with the
single exception of some old hog, an animal that is hard to convince,
who shows his small eyes and pulling back his head from a great gap
in the fence, sticks up his snout and seems to say to a woman praying
near, "Don't eat it all, leave something for me, won't you?"
Two men are digging a grave near one of the tottering walls. One
of them, the grave-digger, works with indifference, throwing about
bones as a gardener does stones and dry branches, while the other,
more intent on his work, is perspiring, smoking, and spitting at
every moment.
"Listen," says the latter in Tagalog, "wouldn't it be better for us
to dig in some other place? This is too recent."
"One grave is as recent as another."
"I can't stand it any longer! That bone you're just cut in two has
blood oozing from it--and those hairs?"
"But how sensitive you are!" was the other's reproach. "Just as if
you were a town clerk! If, like myself, you had dug up a corpse of
twenty days, on a dark and rainy night--! My lantern went out--"
His companion shuddered.
"The coffin burst open, the corpse fell half-way out, it stunk--and
supposing you had to carry it--the rain wet us both--"
"Ugh! And why did you dig it up?"
The grave-digger looked at him in surprise. "Why? How do I know? I
was ordered to do so."
"Who ordered you?"
The grave-digger stepped backward and looked his companion over from
head to foot. "Man, you're like a Spaniard, for afterwards a Spaniard
asked me the same questions, but in secret. So I'm going to answer
you as I answered the Spaniard: the fat curate ordered me to do so."
"Ah! And what did you do with the corpse afterwards?" further
questioned the sensitive one.
"The devil! If I didn't know you and was not sure that you are a _man_
I would say that you were certainly a Spaniard of the Civil Guard,
since you ask questions just as he did. Well, the fat curate ordered
me to bury it in the Chinamen's cemetery, but the coffin was heavy
and the Chinese cemetery far away--"
"No, no! I'm not going to dig any more!" the other interrupted in
horror as he threw away his spade and jumped out of the hole. "I've cut
a skull in two and I'm afraid that it won't let me sleep tonight." The
old grave-digger laughed to see how the chicken-hearted fellow left,
crossing himself.
The cemetery was filling up with men and women dressed in
mourning. Some sought a grave for a time, disputing among themselves
the while, and as if they were unable to agree, they scattered
about, each kneeling where he thought best. Others, who had niches
for their deceased relatives, lighted candles and fell to praying
devoutly. Exaggerated or suppressed sighs and sobs were heard amid
the hum of prayers, _orapreo, orapreiss, requiem-aeternams_, that
arose from all sides.
A little old man with bright eyes entered bareheaded. Upon seeing
him many laughed, and some women knitted their eyebrows. The old man
did not seem to pay any attention to these demonstrations as he went
toward a pile of skulls and knelt to look earnestly for something
among the bones. Then he carefully removed the skulls one by one, but
apparently without finding what he sought, for he wrinkled his brow,
nodded his head from side to side, looked all about him, and finally
rose and approached the grave-digger, who raised his head when the
old man spoke to him.
"Do you know where there is a beautiful skull, white as the meat of a
coconut, with a complete set of teeth, which I had there at the foot
of the cross under those leaves?"
The grave-digger shrugged his shoulders.
"Look!" added the old man, showing a silver coin, "I have only this,
but I'll give it to you if you find the skull for me."
The gleam of the silver caused the grave-digger to consider, and
staring toward the heap of bones he said, "Isn't it there? No? Then
I don't know where it is."
"Don't you know? When those who owe me pay me, I'll give you more,"
continued the old man. "It was the skull of my wife, so if you find
it for me--"