The Social Cancer - 23

that I regret, as they _hurt the prestige_ of the government and of
all good Spaniards, allow me to recommend to your _especial_ care
Señor Ibarra, so that you may afford him means for carrying out his
patriotic intentions and also that in the future you prevent his being
molested by persons of any class whatsoever, under any pretext at all."
The alcalde understood the reprimand and bowed to conceal his
confusion.
"Have the same order communicated to the alferez who commands in the
district here. Also, investigate whether that gentleman has affairs
of his own that are not sanctioned by the regulations. I've heard
more than one complaint in regard to that."
Capitan Tiago presented himself stiff and formal. "Don Santiago," said
his Excellency in an affable tone, "a little while ago I felicitated
you on the happiness of having a daughter such as the Señorita de los
Santos; now let me congratulate you on your future son-in-law. The
most virtuous of daughters is certainly worthy of the best citizen of
the Philippines. Is it permitted to know when the wedding will occur?"
"Sir!" stammered Capitan Tiago, wiping the perspiration from his
forehead.
"Come now, I see that there is nothing definitely arranged. If persons
are lacking to stand up with them, I shall take the greatest pleasure
in being one of them. That's for the purpose of ridding myself of the
feeling of disgust which the many weddings I've heretofore taken part
in have given me," he added, turning to the alcalde.
"Yes, sir," answered Capitan Tiago with a smile that would move
to pity.
Ibarra almost ran in search of Maria Clara--he had so many things
to tell her. Hearing merry voices in one of the rooms, he knocked
lightly on the door.
"Who's there?" asked the voice of Maria Clara.
"I!"
The voices became hushed and the door--did not open.
"It's I, may I come in?" called the young man, his heart beating
violently.
The silence continued. Then light footsteps approached the door and the
merry voice of Sinang murmured through the keyhole, "Crisostomo, we're
going to the theater tonight. Write what you have to say to Maria."
The footsteps retreated again as rapidly as they approached.
"What does this mean?" murmured Ibarra thoughtfully as he retired
slowly from the door.


CHAPTER XXXVIII
The Procession

At nightfall, when all the lanterns in the windows had been lighted,
for the fourth time the procession started amid the ringing of bells
and the usual explosions of bombs. The Captain-General, who had gone
out on foot in company with his two aides, Capitan Tiago, the alcalde,
the alferez, and Ibarra, preceded by civil-guards and officials who
opened the way and cleared the street, was invited to review the
procession from the house of the gobernadorcillo, in front of which
a platform had been erected where a _loa_ [104] would be recited in
honor of the Blessed Patron.
Ibarra would gladly have renounced the pleasure of hearing this
poetical composition, preferring to watch the procession from Capitan
Tiago's house, where Maria Clara had remained with some of her friends,
but his Excellency wished to hear the _loa_, so he had no recourse
but to console himself with the prospect of seeing her at the theater.
The procession was headed by the silver candelabra borne by three
begloved sacristans, behind whom came the school children in charge
of their teacher, then boys with paper lanterns of varied shapes
and colors placed on the ends of bamboo poles of greater or less
length and decorated according to the caprice of each boy, since
this illumination was furnished by the children of the barrios, who
gladly performed this service, imposed by the _matanda sa nayon_,
[105] each one designing and fashioning his own lantern, adorning it
as his fancy prompted and his finances permitted with a greater or
less number of frills and little streamers, and lighting it with a
piece of candle if he had a friend or relative who was a sacristan,
or if he could buy one of the small red tapers such as the Chinese
burn before their altars.
In the midst of the crowd came and went alguazils, guardians of
justice to take care that the lines were not broken and the people
did not crowd together. For this purpose they availed themselves of
their rods, with blows from which, administered opportunely and with
sufficient force, they endeavored to add to the glory and brilliance
of the procession--all for the edification of souls and the splendor
of religious show. At the same time that the alguazils were thus
distributing free their sanctifying blows, other persons, to console
the recipients, distributed candles and tapers of different sizes,
also free.
"Señor Alcalde," said Ibarra in a low voice, "do they administer those
blows as a punishment for sin or simply because they like to do so?"
"You're right, Señor Ibarra," answered the Captain-General, overhearing
the question. "This barbarous sight is a wonder to all who come here
from other countries. It ought to be forbidden."
Without any apparent reason, the first saint that appeared was St. John
the Baptist. On looking at him it might have been said that the fame
of Our Savior's cousin did not amount to much among the people, for
while it is true that he had the feet and legs of a maiden and the
face of an anchorite, yet he was placed on an old wooden _andas_,
and was hidden by a crowd of children who, armed with candles and
unlighted lanterns, were engaging in mock fights.
"Unfortunate saint!" muttered the Sage Tasio, who was watching the
procession from the street, "it avails you nothing to have been the
forerunner of the Good Tidings or that Jesus bowed before you! Your
great faith and your austerity avail you nothing, nor the fact that
you died for the truth and your convictions, all of which men forget
when they consider nothing more than their own merits. It avails more
to preach badly in the churches than to be the eloquent voice crying
in the desert, this is what the Philippines teaches you! If you had
eaten turkey instead of locusts and had worn garments of silk rather
than hides, if you had joined a Corporation--"
But the old man suspended his apostrophe at the approach
of St. Francis. "Didn't I say so?" he then went on, smiling
sarcastically. "This one rides on a ear, and, good Heavens, what a
car! How many lights and how many glass lanterns! Never did I see
you surrounded by so many luminaries, Giovanni Bernardone! [106]
And what music! Other tunes were heard by your followers after your
death! But, venerable and humble founder, if you were to come back
to life now you would see only degenerate Eliases of Cortona, and
if your followers should recognize you, they would put you in jail,
and perhaps you would share the fate of Cesareus of Spyre."
After the music came a banner on which was pictured the same saint, but
with seven wings, carried by the Tertiary Brethren dressed in _guingón_
habits and praying in high, plaintive voices. Rather inexplicably,
next came St. Mary Magdalene, a beautiful image with abundant hair,
wearing a pañuelo of embroidered piña held by fingers covered with
rings, and a silk gown decorated with gilt spangles. Lights and
incense surrounded her while her glass tears reflected the colors
of the Bengal lights, which, while giving a fantastic appearance to
the procession, also made the saintly sinner weep now green, now red,
now blue tears. The houses did not begin to light up until St. Francis
was passing; St. John the Baptist did not enjoy this honor and passed
hastily by as if ashamed to be the only one dressed in hides in such
a crowd of folk covered with gold and jewels.
"There goes our saint!" exclaimed the daughter of the gobernadorcillo
to her visitors. "I've lent him all my rings, but that's in order to
get to heaven."
The candle-bearers stopped around the platform to listen to the _loa_
and the blessed saints did the same; either they or their bearers
wished to hear the verses. Those who were carrying St. John, tired
of waiting, squatted down on their heels and agreed to set him on
the ground.
"The alguazil may scold!" objected one of them.
"Huh, in the sacristy they leave him in a corner among the cobwebs!"
So St. John, once on the ground, became one of the townsfolk.
As the Magdalene set out the women joined the procession, only that
instead of beginning with the children, as among the men, the old women
came first and the girls filled up the lines to the car of the Virgin,
behind which came the curate under his canopy. This practise they had
from Padre Damaso, who said: "To the Virgin the maidens and not the old
women are pleasing!" This statement had caused wry faces on the part
of many saintly old ladies, but the Virgin did not change her tastes.
San Diego followed the Magdalene but did not seem to be rejoicing
over this fact, since he moved along as repentantly as he had in
the morning when he followed St. Francis. His float was drawn by six
Tertiary Sisters--whether because of some vow or on account of some
sickness, the fact is that they dragged him along, and with zeal. San
Diego stopped in front of the platform and waited to be saluted.
But it was necessary to wait for the float of the Virgin, which was
preceded by persons dressed like phantoms, who frightened the little
children so that there were heard the cries and screams of terrified
babies. Yet in the midst of that dark mass of gowns, hoods, girdles,
and nuns' veils, from which arose a monotonous and snuffling prayer,
there were to be seen, like white jasmines or fresh sampaguitas among
old rags, twelve girls dressed in white, crowned with flowers, their
hair curled, and flashing from their eyes glances as bright as their
necklaces. Like little genii of light who were prisoners of specters
they moved along holding to the wide blue ribbons tied to the Virgin's
car and suggesting the doves that draw the car of Spring.
Now all the images were in attitudes of attention, crowded one against
the other to listen to the verses. Everybody kept his eyes fixed on
the half-drawn curtain until at length a sigh of admiration escaped
from the lips of all. Deservedly so, too, for it was a boy with wings,
riding-boots, sash, belt, and plumed hat.
"It's the alcalde!" cried some one, but this prodigy of creation began
to recite a poem like himself and took no offense at the comparison.
But why record here what he said in Latin, Tagalog, and Spanish, all
in verse--this poor victim of the gobernadorcillo? Our readers have
enjoyed Padre Damaso's sermon of the morning and we do not wish to
spoil them by too many wonders. Besides, the Franciscan might feel
hard toward us if we were to put forward a competitor, and this is
far from being the desire of such peaceful folk as we have the good
fortune to be.
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
of signs--and of these she chose the loudest and most impressive--that
she could have given odds to the inventor of Volapuk.
Sisa, therefore, had the good fortune not to understand her, so
the Medusa smoothed out her eyebrows a little, while a smile of
satisfaction lighted up her face; undoubtedly she did not know Tagalog,
she was an _orofea!_
"Boy, tell her in Tagalog to sing! She doesn't understand me, she
doesn't understand Spanish!"
The madwoman understood the boy and began to sing the _Song of
the Night_. Doña Consolacion listened at first with a sneer, which
disappeared little by little from her lips. She became attentive, then
serious, and even somewhat thoughtful. The voice, the sentiment in the
lines, and the song itself affected her--that dry and withered heart
was perhaps thirsting for rain. She understood it well: "The sadness,
the cold, and the moisture that descend from the sky when wrapped in
the mantle of night," so ran the _kundíman_, seemed to be descending
also on her heart. "The withered and faded flower which during the
day flaunted her finery, seeking applause and full of vanity, at
eventide, repentant and disenchanted, makes an effort to raise her
drooping petals to the sky, seeking a little shade to hide herself and
die without the mocking of the light that saw her in her splendor,
without seeing the vanity of her pride, begging also that a little
dew should weep upon her. The nightbird leaves his solitary retreat,
the hollow of an ancient trunk, and disturbs the sad loneliness of
the open places--"
"No, don't sing!" she exclaimed in perfect Tagalog, as she rose with
agitation. "Don't sing! Those verses hurt me."
The crazy woman became silent. The boy ejaculated, "_Abá!_ She talks
Tagalog!" and stood staring with admiration at his mistress, who,
realizing that she had given herself away, was ashamed of it, and as
her nature was not that of a woman, the shame took the aspect of rage
and hate; so she showed the door to the imprudent boy and closed it
behind him with a kick.
Twisting the whip in her nervous hands, she took a few turns around
the room, then stopping suddenly in front of the crazy woman, said
to her in Spanish, "Dance!" But Sisa did not move.
"Dance, dance!" she repeated in a sinister tone.
The madwoman looked at her with wandering, expressionless eyes, while
the alfereza lifted one of her arms, then the other, and shook them,
but to no purpose, for Sisa did not understand. Then she began to
jump about and shake herself, encouraging Sisa to imitate her. In
the distance was to be heard the music of the procession playing
a grave and majestic march, but Doña Consolacion danced furiously,
keeping other time to other music resounding within her. Sisa gazed at
her without moving, while her eyes expressed curiosity and something
like a weak smile hovered around her pallid lips: the lady's dancing
amused her. The latter stopped as if ashamed, raised the whip,--that
terrible whip known to thieves and soldiers, made in Ulango [111]
and perfected by the alferez with twisted wires,--and said, "Now it's
your turn to dance--dance!"
She began to strike the madwoman's bare feet gently with the
whip. Sisa's face drew up with pain and she was forced to protect
herself with her hands.
"Aha, now you're starting!" she exclaimed with savage joy, passing
from _lento_ to _allegro vivace_.
The afflicted Sisa gave a cry of pain and quickly raised her foot.
"You've got to dance, you Indian--!" The whip swung and whistled.
Sisa let herself fall to the floor and placed both hands on her knees
while she gazed at her tormentor with wildly-staring eyes. Two sharp
cuts of the whip on her shoulder made her stand up, and it was not
merely a cry but a howl that the unfortunate woman uttered. Her thin
camisa was torn, her skin broken, and the blood was flowing.
The sight of blood arouses the tiger; the blood of her victim aroused
Doña Consolacion. "Dance, damn you, dance! Evil to the mother who
bore you!" she cried. "Dance, or I'll flog you to death!" She then
caught Sisa with one hand and, whipping her with the other, began to
dance about.
The crazy woman at last understood and followed the example by
swinging her arms about awkwardly. A smile of satisfaction curled
the lips of her teacher, the smile of a female Mephistopheles who
succeeds in getting a great pupil. There were in it hate, disdain,
jest, and cruelty; with a burst of demoniacal laughter she could not
have expressed more.
Thus, absorbed in the joy of the sight, she was not aware of the
arrival of her husband until he opened the door with a loud kick. The
alferez appeared pale and gloomy, and when he saw what was going on
he threw a terrible glance at his wife, who did not move from her
place but stood smiling at him cynically.
The alferez put his hand as gently as he could on the shoulder of
the strange dancer and made her stop. The crazy woman sighed and sank
slowly to the floor covered with her own blood.
The silence continued. The alferez breathed heavily, while his wife
watched him with questioning eyes. She picked up the whip and asked
in a smooth, soft voice, "What's the matter with you? You haven't
even wished me good evening."
The alferez did not answer, but instead called the boy and said to him,