Excerpts from Noli Me Tangere Written by Jose Rizal Translated into English by Charles Debyshire

I. A Social Gathering. On the last of October Don Santiago de los Santos, popularly known as
Capitan Tiago, gave a dinner. In spite of the fact that, contrary to his usual custom, he had made
the announcement only that afternoon, it was already the sole topic of conversation in Binondo
and adjacent districts, and even in the Walled City, for at that time Capitan Tiago was considered
one of the most hospitable of men, and it was well known that his house, like his country, shut
its doors against nothing except commerce and all new or bold ideas. Like an electric shock the
announcement ran through the world of parasites, bores, and hangers-on, whom God in His
infinite bounty creates and so kindly multiplies in Manila. Some looked at once for shoe-polish,
others for buttons and cravats, but all were especially concerned about how to greet the master
of the house in the most familiar tone, in order to create an atmosphere of ancient friendship or,
if occasion should arise, to excuse a late arrival. This dinner was given in a house on Calle
Anloague, and although we do not remember the number we will describe it in such a way that
it may still be recognized, provided the earthquakes have not destroyed it. We do not believe that
its owner has had it torn down, for such labors are generally entrusted to God or nature--which
Powers hold the contracts also for many of the projects of our government. It is a rather large
building, in the style of many in the country, and fronts upon the arm of the Pasig which is known
to some as the Binondo River, and which, like all the streams in Manila, plays the varied roles of
bath, sewer, laundry, fishery, means of transportation and communication, and even drinking
water if the Chinese water-carrier finds it convenient. It is worthy of note that in the distance of
nearly a mile this important artery of the district, where traffic is most dense and movement most
deafening, can boast of only one wooden bridge, which is out of repair on one side for six months
and impassable on the other for the rest of the year, so that during the hot season the ponies
take advantage of this permanent status quo to jump off the bridge into the water, to the great
surprise of the abstracted mortal who may be dozing inside the carriage or philosophizing upon
the progress of the age. The house of which we are speaking is somewhat low and not exactly
correct in all its lines: whether the architect who built it was afflicted with poor eyesight or whether
the earthquakes and typhoons have twisted it out of shape, no one can say with certainty. A wide
staircase with green newels and carpeted steps leads from the tiled entrance up to the main floor
between rows of flower-pots set upon pedestals of motley-colored and fantastically decorated
Chinese porcelain. Since there are neither porters nor servants who demand invitation cards, we
will go in, O you who read this, whether friend or foe, if you

are attracted by the strains of the orchestra, the lights, or the suggestive rattling of dishes, knives,
and forks, and if you wish to see what such a gathering is like in the distant Pearl of the Orient.
Gladly, and for my own comfort, I should spare you this description of the house, were it not of
great importance, since we mortals in general are very much like tortoises: we are esteemed and
classified according to our shells; in this and still other respects the mortals of the Philippines in
particular also resemble tortoises. If we go up the stairs, we immediately find ourselves in a
spacious hallway, called there, for some unknown reason, the caida, which tonight serves as the
dining-room and at the same time affords a place for the orchestra. In the center a large table
profusely and expensively decorated seems to beckon to the hanger-on with sweet promises,
while it threatens the bashful maiden, the simple dalaga, with two mortal hours in the company
of strangers whose language and conversation usually have a very restricted and special
character. Contrasted with these terrestrial preparations are the motley paintings on the walls
representing religious matters, such as "Purgatory," "Hell," "The Last Judgment," "The Death of
the Just," and "The Death of the Sinner." At the back of the room, fastened in a splendid and
elegant framework, in the Renaissance style, possibly by Arevalo, is a glass case in which are
seen the figures of two old women. The inscription on this reads: "Our Lady of Peace and
Prosperous Voyages, who is worshiped in Antipolo, visiting in the disguise of a beggar the holy
and renowned Capitana Inez during her sickness." While the work reveals little taste or art, yet it
possesses in compensation an extreme realism, for to judge from the yellow and bluish tints of
her face the sick woman seems to be already a decaying corpse, and the glasses and other
objects, accompaniments of long illness, are so minutely reproduced that even their contents may
be distinguished. In looking at these pictures, which excite the appetite and inspire gay bucolic
ideas, one may perhaps be led to think that the malicious host is well acquainted with the
characters of the majority of those who are to sit at his table and that, in order to conceal his
own way of thinking, he has hung from the ceiling costly Chinese lanterns; bird-cages without
birds; red, green, and blue globes of frosted glass; faded air-plants; and dried and inflated fishes,
which they call botetes. The view is closed on the side of the river by curious wooden arches, half
Chinese and half European, affording glimpses of a terrace with arbors and bowers faintly lighted
by paper lanterns of many colors. In the sala, among massive mirrors and gleaming chandeliers,
the guests are assembled. Here, on a raised platform, stands a grand piano of great price, which
tonight has the additional virtue of not being played upon. Here, hanging on the wall, is an oil-
painting of a handsome man in full dress, rigid, erect, straight as the tasseled cane he holds in
his stiff, ring-covered fingers--the whole seeming to say, "Ahem! See how well dressed and how
dignified I am!" The furnishings of the room are elegant and perhaps uncomfortable and
unhealthful, since the master of the house would consider not so much the comfort and health
of his guests as his own ostentation, "A terrible thing is dysentery," he would say to them, "but
you are sitting in European chairs and that is something you don't find every day."

This room is almost filled with people, the men being separated from the women as in synagogues
and Catholic churches. The women consist of a number of Filipino and Spanish maidens, who,
when they open their mouths to yawn, instantly cover them with their fans and who murmur only
a few words to each other, any conversation ventured upon dying out in monosyllables like the
sounds heard in a house at night, sounds made by the rats and lizards. Is it perhaps the different
likenesses of Our Lady hanging on the walls that force them to silence and a religious demeanor
or is it that the women here are an exception? A cousin of Capitan Tiago, a sweet-faced old
woman, who speaks Spanish quite badly, is the only one receiving the ladies. To offer to the
Spanish ladies a plate of cigars and buyos, to extend her hand to her countrywomen to be kissed,
exactly as the friars do,--this is the sum of her courtesy, her policy. The poor old lady soon
became bored, and taking advantage of the noise of a plate breaking, rushed precipitately away,
muttering, "Jesus! Just wait, you rascals!" and failed to reappear. The men, for their part, are
making more of a stir. Some cadets in one corner are conversing in a lively manner but in low
tones, looking around now and then to point out different persons in the room while they laugh
more or less openly among themselves. In contrast, two foreigners dressed in white are
promenading silently from one end of the room to the other with their hands crossed behind their
backs, like the bored passengers on the deck of a ship. All the interest and the greatest animation
proceed from a group composed of two priests, two civilians, and a soldier who are seated around
a small table on which are seen bottles of wine and English biscuits. The soldier, a tall, elderly
lieutenant with an austere countenance-- a Duke of Alva straggling behind in the roster of the
Civil Guard-- talks little, but in a harsh, curt way. One of the priests, a youthful Dominican friar,
handsome, graceful, polished as the gold-mounted eyeglasses he wears, maintains a premature
gravity. He is the curate of Binondo and has been in former years a professor in the college of
San Juan de Letran, where he enjoyed the reputation of being a consummate dialectician, so
much so that in the days when the sons of Guzman still dared to match themselves in subtleties
with laymen, the able disputant B. de Luna had never been able either to catch or to confuse
him, the distinctions made by Fray Sibyla leaving his opponent in the situation of a fisherman
who tries to catch eels with a lasso. The Dominican says little, appearing to weigh his words.
Quite in contrast, the other priest, a Franciscan, talks much and gesticulates more. In spite of the
fact that his hair is beginning to turn gray, he seems to be preserving well his robust constitution,
while his regular features, his rather disquieting glance, his wide jaws and herculean frame give
him the appearance of a Roman noble in disguise and make us involuntarily recall one of those
three monks of whom Heine tells in his "Gods in Exile," who at the September equinox in the
Tyrol used to cross a lake at midnight and each time place in the hand of the poor boatman a
silver piece, cold as ice, which left him full of terror. But Fray Damaso is not so mysterious as
they were. He is full of merriment, and if the tone of his voice is rough like that of a man who
has never had occasion to correct himself and who believes that whatever he says is holy and
above improvement, still his frank, merry laugh wipes out this disagreeable impression and even
obliges us to pardon his showing to the room bare feet and hairy legs that would make the fortune
of a Mendieta in the Quiapo fairs.

One of the civilians is a very small man with a black beard, the only thing notable about him being
his nose, which, to judge from its size, ought not to belong to him. The other is a rubicund youth,
who seems to have arrived but recently in the country. With him the Franciscan is carrying on a
lively discussion. "You'll see," the friar was saying, "when you've been here a few months you'll
be convinced of what I say. It's one thing to govern in Madrid and another to live in the
Philippines." "But--" "I, for example," continued Fray Damaso, raising his voice still higher to
prevent the other from speaking, "I, for example, who can look back over twenty-three years of
bananas and morisqueta, know whereof I speak. Don't come at me with theories and fine
speeches, for I know the Indian. Mark well that the moment I arrived in the country I was
assigned to a toxin, small it is true, but especially devoted to agriculture. I didn't understand
Tagalog very well then, but I was, soon confessing the women, and we understood one another
and they came to like me so well that three years later, when I was transferred to another and
larger town, made vacant by the death of the native curate, all fell to weeping, they heaped gifts
upon me, they escorted me with music--" "But that only goes to show--" "Wait, wait! Don't be so
hasty! My successor remained a shorter time, and when he left he had more attendance, more
tears, and more music. Yet he had been more given to whipping and had raised the fees in the
parish to almost double." "But you will allow me--" "But that isn't all. I stayed in the town of San
Diego twenty years and it has been only a few months since I left it." Here he showed signs of
chagrin. "Twenty years, no one can deny, are more than sufficient to get acquainted with a town.
San Diego has a population of six thousand souls and I knew every inhabitant as well as if I had
been his mother and wet-nurse. I knew in which foot this one was lame, where the shoe pinched
that one, who was courting that girl, what affairs she had had and with whom, who was the real
father of the child, and so on--for I was the confessor of every last one, and they took care not
to fail in their duty. Our host, Santiago, will tell you whether I am speaking the truth, for he has
a lot of land there and that was where we first became friends. Well then, you may see what the
Indian is: when I left I was escorted by only a few old women and some of the tertiary brethren-
-and that after I had been there twenty years!" "But I don't see what that has to do with the
abolition of the tobacco monopoly," ventured the rubicund youth, taking advantage of the
Franciscan's pausing to drink a glass of sherry.
Fray Damaso was so greatly surprised that he nearly let his glass fall. He remained for a moment
staring fixedly at the young man. "What? How's that?" he was finally able to exclaim in great
wonderment. "Is it possible that you don't see it as clear as day? Don't you see, my son, that all
this proves plainly that the reforms of the ministers are irrational?" It was now the youth's turn
to look perplexed. The lieutenant wrinkled his eyebrows a little more and the small man nodded
toward Fray Damaso equivocally. The Dominican contented himself with almost turning his back
on the whole group. "Do you really believe so?" the young man at length asked with great
seriousness, as he looked at the friar with curiosity. "Do I believe so? As I believe the Gospel!
The Indian is so indolent!" "Ah, pardon me for interrupting you," said the young man, lowering
his voice and drawing his chair a little closer, "but you have said something that awakens all my
interest. Does this indolence actually, naturally, exist among the natives or is there some truth in
what a foreign traveler says: that with this indolence we excuse our own, as well as our
backwardness and our colonial system. He referred to other colonies whose inhabitants belong
to the same race--" "Bah, jealousy! Ask Senor Laruja, who also knows this country. Ask him if
there is any equal to the ignorance and indolence of the Indian." "It's true," affirmed the little
man, who was referred to as Senor Laruja. "In no part of the world can you find any one more
indolent than the Indian, in no part of the world." "Nor more vicious, nor more ungrateful!" "Nor
more unmannerly!" The rubicund youth began to glance about nervously. "Gentlemen," he
whispered, "I believe that we are in the house of an Indian. Those young ladies--" "Bah, don't be
so apprehensive! Santiago doesn't consider himself an Indian--and besides, he's not here. And
what if he were! These are the nonsensical ideas of the newcomers. Let a few months pass and
you will change your opinion, after you have attended a lot of fiestas and bailuhan, slept on cots,
and eaten your fill of tinola." "Ah, is this thing that you call tinola a variety of lotus which makes
people--er--forgetful?" "Nothing of the kind!" exclaimed Fray Damaso with a smile. "You're getting
absurd. Tinola is a stew of chicken and squash. How long has it been since you got here?" "Four
days," responded the youth, rather offended.

"Have you come as a government employee?" "No, sir, I've come at my own expense to study
the country." "Man, what a rare bird!" exclaimed Fray Damaso, staring at him with curiosity. "To
come at one's own expense and for such foolishness! What a wonder! When there are so many
books! And with two fingerbreadths of forehead! Many have written books as big as that! With
two fingerbreadths of forehead!" The Dominican here brusquely broke in upon the conversation.
"Did your Reverence, Fray Damaso, say that you had been twenty years in the town of San Diego
and that you had left it? Wasn't your Reverence satisfied with the town?" At this question, which
was put in a very natural and almost negligent tone, Fray Damaso suddenly lost all his merriment
and stopped laughing. "No!" he grunted dryly, and let himself back heavily against the back of
his chair. The Dominican went on in a still more indifferent tone. "It must be painful to leave a
town where one has been for twenty years and which he knows as well as the clothes he wears.
I certainly was sorry to leave Kamiling and that after I had been there only a few months. But
my superiors did it for the good of the Orders for my own good." Fray Damaso, for the first time
that evening, seemed to be very thoughtful. Suddenly he brought his fist down on the arm of his
chair and with a heavy breath exclaimed: "Either Religion is a fact or it is not! That is, either the
curates are free or they are not! The country is going to ruin, it is lost!" And again he struck the
arm of his chair. Everybody in the sala turned toward the group with astonished looks. The
Dominican raised his head to stare at the Franciscan from under his glasses. The two foreigners
paused a moment, stared with an expression of mingled severity and reproof, then immediately
continued their promenade. "He's in a bad humor because you haven't treated him with
deference," murmured Senor Laruja into the ear of the rubicund youth. "What does your
Reverence mean? What's the trouble?" inquired the Dominican and the lieutenant at the same
time, but in different tones. "That's why so many calamities come! The ruling powers support
heretics against the ministers of God!" continued the Franciscan, raising his heavy fists. "What
do you mean?" again inquired the frowning lieutenant, half rising from his chair. "What do I
mean?" repeated Fray Damaso, raising his voice and facing the lieutenant. "I'll tell you what I
mean. I, yes I, mean to say that when a priest throws out of his cemetery the corpse of a heretic,
no one, not even the King himself, has any right to interfere and much less to impose any
punishment! But a little General--a little General Calamity--"

"Padre, his Excellency is the Vice-Regal Patron!" shouted the soldier, rising to his feet. "Excellency!
Vice-Regal Patron! What of that!" retorted the Franciscan, also rising. "In other times he would
have been dragged down a staircase as the religious orders once did with the impious Governor
Bustamente. Those were indeed the days of faith." "I warn you that I can't permit this! His
Excellency represents his Majesty the King!" "King or rook! What difference does that make? For
us there is no king other than the legitimate--" "Halt!" shouted the lieutenant in a threatening
tone, as if he were commanding his soldiers. "Either you withdraw what you have said or
tomorrow I will report it to his Excellency!" "Go ahead--right now--go on!" was the sarcastic
rejoinder of Fray Damaso as he approached the officer with clenched fists. "Do you think that
because I wear the cloth, I'm afraid? Go now, while I can lend you my carriage!" The dispute was
taking a ludicrous turn, but fortunately the Dominican intervened. "Gentlemen," he began in an
authoritative tone and with the nasal twang that so well becomes the friars, "you must not confuse
things or seek for offenses where there are none. We must distinguish in the words of Fray
Damaso those of the man from those of the priest. The latter, as such, per se, can never give
offense, because they spring from absolute truth, while in those of the man there is a secondary
distinction to be made: those which he utters ab irato, those which he utters ex ore, but not in
corde, and those which he does utter in corde. These last are the only ones that can really offend,
and only according to whether they preexisted as a motive in mente, or arose solely per accidens
in the heat of the discussion, if there really exist--" "But I, by accidens and for my own part,
understand his motives, Padre Sibyla," broke in the old soldier, who saw himself about to be
entangled in so many distinctions that he feared lest he might still be held to blame. "I understand
the motives about which your Reverence is going to make distinctions. During the absence of
Padre Damaso from San Diego, his coadjutor buried the body of an extremely worthy individual
--yes, sir, extremely worthy, for I had had dealings with him many times and had been entertained
in his house. What if he never went to confession, what does that matter? Neither do I go to
confession! But to say that he committed suicide is a lie, a slander! A man such as he was, who
has a son upon whom he centers his affection and hopes, a man who has faith in God, who
recognizes his duties to society, a just and honorable man, does not commit suicide. This much
I will say and will refrain from expressing the rest of my thoughts here, so please your Reverence."
Then, turning his back on the Franciscan, he went on: "Now then, this priest on his return to the
town, after maltreating the poor coadjutor, had the corpse dug up and taken away from the
cemetery to be buried I don't know where. The people of San Diego were cowardly enough not
to protest, although it is true that few knew of the outrage. The dead man had no relatives there
and his only son was in Europe. But his Excellency learned of the affair and as he is an upright
man asked for some punishment--and

Padre Damaso was transferred to a better town. That's all there is to it. Now your Reverence can
make your distinctions." So saying, he withdrew from the group. "I'm sorry that I inadvertently
brought up so delicate a subject," said Padre Sibyla sadly. "But, after all, if there has been a gain
in the change of towns" "How is there to be a gain? And what of all the things that are lost in
moving, the letters, and the--and everything that is mislaid?" interrupted Fray Damaso,
stammering in the vain effort to control his anger. Little by little the party resumed its former
tranquillity. Other guests had come in, among them a lame old Spaniard of mild and inoffensive
aspect leaning on the arm of an elderly Filipina, who was resplendent in frizzes and paint and a
European gown. The group welcomed them heartily, and Doctor De Espadana and his senora,
the Doctora Dona Victorina, took their seats among our acquaintances. Some newspaper
reporters and shopkeepers greeted one another and moved about aimlessly without knowing just
what to do. "But can you tell me, Senor Laruja, what kind of man our host is?" inquired the
rubicund youth. "I haven't been introduced to him yet." "They say that he has gone out. I haven't
seen him either." "There's no need of introductions here," volunteered Fray Damaso. "Santiago
is made of the right stuff." "No, he's not the man who invented gunpowder," added Laruja. "You
too, Senor Laruja," exclaimed Dona Victorina in mild reproach, as she fanned herself. "How could
the poor man invent gunpowder if, as is said, the Chinese invented it centuries ago?" "The
Chinese! Are you crazy?" cried Fray Damaso. "Out with you! A Franciscan, one of my Order, Fray
What-do-you-call-him Savalls, invented it in the--ah the seventh century!" "A Franciscan? Well,
he must have been a missionary in China, that Padre Savalls," replied the lady, who did not thus
easily part from her beliefs. "Schwartz, perhaps you mean, senora," said Fray Sibyla, without
looking at her. "I don't know. Fray Damaso said a Franciscan and I was only repeating." "Well,
Savalls or Chevas, what does it matter? The difference of a letter doesn't make him a Chinaman,"
replied the Franciscan in bad humor. "And in the fourteenth century, not the seventh," added the
Dominican in a tone of correction, as if to mortify the pride of the other friar. "Well, neither does
a century more or less make him a Dominican."

"Don't get angry, your Reverence," admonished Padre Sibyla, smiling. "So much the better that
he did invent it so as to save his brethren the trouble." "And did you say, Padre Sibyla, that it
was in the fourteenth century?" asked Dona Victorina with great interest. "Was that before or
after Christ?" Fortunately for the individual questioned, two persons entered the room.

II. Crisostomo Ibarra.It was not two beautiful and well-gowned young women that attracted
the attention of all, even including Fray Sibyla, nor was it his Excellency the Captain-General with
his staff, that the lieutenant should start from his abstraction and take a couple of steps forward,
or that Fray Damaso should look as if turned to stone; it was simply the original of the oil-painting
leading by the hand a young man dressed in deep mourning. "Good evening, gentlemen! Good
evening, Padre!" were the greetings of Capitan Tiago as he kissed the hands of the priests, who
forgot to bestow upon him their benediction. The Dominican had taken off his glasses to stare at
the newly arrived youth, while Fray Damaso was pale and unnaturally wide-eyed. "I have the
honor of presenting to you Don Crisostomo Ibarra, the son of my deceased friend," went on
Capitan Tiago. "The young gentleman has just arrived from Europe and I went to meet him." At
the mention of the name exclamations were heard. The lieutenant forgot to pay his respects to
his host and approached the young man, looking him over from head to foot. The young man
himself at that moment was exchanging the conventional greetings with all in the group, nor did
there seem to be any thing extraordinary about him except his mourning garments in the center
of that brilliantly lighted room. Yet in spite of them his remarkable stature, his features, and his
movements breathed forth an air of healthy youthfulness in which both body and mind had
equally developed. There might have been noticed in his frank, pleasant face some faint traces
of Spanish blood showing through a beautiful brown color, slightly flushed at the cheeks as a
result perhaps of his residence in cold countries. "What!" he exclaimed with joyful surprise, "the
curate of my native town! Padre Damaso, my father's intimate friend!" Every look in the room
was directed toward the Franciscan, who made no movement. "Pardon me, perhaps I'm
mistaken," added Ibarra, embarrassed. "You are not mistaken," the friar was at last able to
articulate in a changed voice, "but your father was never an intimate friend of mine."

Ibarra slowly withdrew his extended hand, looking greatly surprised, and turned to encounter the
gloomy gaze of the lieutenant fixed on him. "Young man, are you the son of Don Rafael Ibarra?"
he asked. The youth bowed. Fray Damaso partly rose in his chair and stared fixedly at the
lieutenant. "Welcome back to your country! And may you be happier in it than your father was!"
exclaimed the officer in a trembling voice. "I knew him well and can say that he was one of the
worthiest and most honorable men in the Philippines." "Sir," replied Ibarra, deeply moved, "the
praise you bestow upon my father removes my doubts about the manner of his death, of which
I, his son, am yet ignorant." The eyes of the old soldier filled with tears and turning away hastily
he withdrew. The young man thus found himself alone in the center of the room. His host having
disappeared, he saw no one who might introduce him to the young ladies, many of whom were
watching him with interest. After a few moments of hesitation he started toward them in a simple
and natural manner. "Allow me," he said, "to overstep the rules of strict etiquette. It has been
seven years since I have been in my own country and upon returning to it I cannot suppress my
admiration and refrain from paying my respects to its most precious ornaments, the ladies." But
as none of them ventured a reply, he found himself obliged to retire. He then turned toward a
group of men who, upon seeing him approach, arranged themselves in a semicircle. "Gentlemen,"
he addressed them, "it is a custom in Germany, when a stranger finds himself at a function and
there is no one to introduce him to those present, that he give his name and so introduce himself.
Allow me to adopt this usage here, not to introduce foreign customs when our own are so
beautiful, but because I find myself driven to it by necessity. I have already paid my respects to
the skies and to the ladies of my native land; now I wish to greet its citizens, my fellow-
countrymen. Gentlemen, my name is Juan Crisostomo Ibarra y Magsalin." The others gave their
names, more or less obscure, and unimportant here. "My name is A----," said one youth dryly, as
he made a slight bow. "Then I have the honor of addressing the poet whose works have done so
much to keep up my enthusiasm for my native land. It is said that you do not write any more,
but I could not learn the reason." "The reason? Because one does not seek inspiration in order
to debase himself and lie. One writer has been imprisoned for having put a very obvious truth
into verse. They may have called me a poet but they sha'n't call me a fool." "And may I enquire
what that truth was?"

"He said that the lion's son is also a lion. He came very near to being exiled for it," replied the
strange youth, moving away from the group. A man with a smiling face, dressed in the fashion
of the natives of the country, with diamond studs in his shirt-bosom, came up at that moment
almost running. He went directly to Ibarra and grasped his hand, saying, "Senor Ibarra, I've been
eager to make your acquaintance. Capitan Tiago is a friend of mine and I knew your respected
father. I am known as Capitan Tinong and live in Tondo, where you will always be welcome. I
hope that you will honor me with a visit. Come and dine with us tomorrow." He smiled and rubbed
his hands. "Thank you," replied Ibarra, warmly, charmed with such amiability, "but tomorrow
morning I must leave for San Diego." "How unfortunate! Then it will be on your return." "Dinner
is served!" announced a waiter from the cafe La Campana, and the guests began to file out
toward the table, the women, especially the Filipinas, with great hesitation.
III. The Dinner Jele, jele, bago quiere. Fray Sibyla seemed to be very content as he moved
along tranquilly with the look of disdain no longer playing about his thin, refined lips. He even
condescended to speak to the lame doctor, De Espadana, who answered in monosyllables only,
as he was somewhat of a stutterer. The Franciscan was in a frightful humor, kicking at the chairs
and even elbowing a cadet out of his way. The lieutenant was grave while the others talked
vivaciously, praising the magnificence of the table. Dona Victorina, however, was just turning up
her nose in disdain when she suddenly became as furious as a trampled serpent-- the lieutenant
had stepped on the train of her gown. "Haven't you any eyes?" she demanded. "Yes, senora, two
better than yours, but the fact is that I was admiring your frizzes," retorted the rather ungallant
soldier as he moved away from her. As if from instinct the two friars both started toward the
head of the table, perhaps from habit, and then, as might have been expected, the same thing
happened that occurs with the competitors for a university position, who openly exalt the
qualifications and superiority of their opponents, later giving to understand that just the contrary
was meant, and who murmur and grumble when they do not receive the appointment.

"For you, Fray Damaso." "For you, Fray Sibyla." "An older friend of the family--confessor of the
deceased lady-- age, dignity, and authority--" "Not so very old, either! On the other hand, you
are the curate of the district," replied Fray Damaso sourly, without taking his hand from the back
of the chair. "Since you command it, I obey," concluded Fray Sibyla, disposing himself to take the
seat. "I don't command it!" protested the Franciscan. "I don't command it!" Fray Sibyla was about
to seat himself without paying any more attention to these protests when his eyes happened to
encounter those of the lieutenant. According to clerical opinion in the Philippines, the highest
secular official is inferior to a friar-cook: cedant arma togae, said Cicero in the Senate--cedant
arma cottae, say the friars in the Philippines. But Fray Sibyla was a well-bred person, so he said,
"Lieutenant, here we are in the world and not in the church. The seat of honor belongs to you."
To judge from the tone of his voice, however, even in the world it really did belong to him, and
the lieutenant, either to keep out of trouble or to avoid sitting between two friars, curtly declined.
None of the claimants had given a thought to their host. Ibarra noticed him watching the scene
with a smile of satisfaction. "How's this, Don Santiago, aren't you going to sit down with us?" But
all the seats were occupied; Lucullus was not to sup in the house of Lucullus. "Sit still, don't get
up!" said Capitan Tiago, placing his hand on the young man's shoulder. "This fiesta is for the
special purpose of giving thanks to the Virgin for your safe arrival. Oy! Bring on the tinola! I
ordered tinola as you doubtless have not tasted any for so long a time." A large steaming tureen
was brought in. The Dominican, after muttering the benedicite, to which scarcely any one knew
how to respond, began to serve the contents. But whether from carelessness or other cause,
Padre Damaso received a plate in which a bare neck and a tough wing of chicken floated about
in a large quantity of soup amid lumps of squash, while the others were eating legs and breasts,
especially Ibarra, to whose lot fell the second joints. Observing all this, the Franciscan mashed
up some pieces of squash, barely tasted the soup, dropped his spoon noisily, and roughly pushed
his plate away. The Dominican was very busy talking to the rubicund youth. "How long have you
been away from the country?"
Laruja asked Ibarra. "Almost seven years." "Then you have probably forgotten all about it."

"Quite the contrary. Even if my country does seem to have forgotten me, I have always thought
about it." "How do you mean that it has forgotten you?" inquired the rubicund youth. "I mean
that it has been a year since I have received any news from here, so that I find myself a stranger
who does not yet know how and when his father died." This statement drew a sudden exclamation
from the lieutenant. "And where were you that you didn't telegraph?" asked Dona Victorina.
"When we were married we telegraphed to the Peninsula." "Senora, for the past two years I have
been in the northern part of Europe, in Germany and Russian Poland." Doctor De Espadana, who
until now had not ventured upon any conversation, thought this a good opportunity to say
something. "I-- I knew in S-spain a P-pole from W-warsaw, c-called S-stadtnitzki, if I rremember
c-correctly. P-perhaps you s-saw him?" he asked timidly and almost blushingly. "It's very likely,"
answered Ibarra in a friendly manner, "but just at this moment I don't recall him." "B-but you c-
couldn't have c-confused him with any one else," went on the Doctor, taking courage. "He was
r-ruddy as gold and t-talked Spanish very b-badly." "Those are good clues, but unfortunately
while there I talked Spanish only in a few consulates." "How then did you get along?" asked the
wondering Dona Victorina. "The language of the country served my needs, madam." "Do you also
speak English?" inquired the Dominican, who had been in Hongkong, and who was a master of
pidgin-English, that adulteration of Shakespeare's tongue used by the sons of the Celestial
Empire. "I stayed in England a year among people who talked nothing but English." "Which
country of Europe pleased you the most?" asked the rubicund youth. "After Spain, my second
fatherland, any country of free Europe." "And you who seem to have traveled so much, tell us
what do you consider the most notable thing that you have seen?" inquired Laruja. Ibarra
appeared to reflect. "Notable--in what way?" "For example, in regard to the life of the people--
the social, political, religious life--in general, in its essential features-- as a whole."

Ibarra paused thoughtfully before replying. "Frankly, I like everything in those people, setting
aside the national pride of each one. But before visiting a country, I tried to familiarize myself
with its history, its Exodus, if I may so speak, and afterwards I found everything quite natural. I
have observed that the prosperity or misery of each people is in direct proportion to its liberties
or its prejudices and, accordingly, to the sacrifices or the selfishness of its forefathers." "And
haven't you observed anything more than that?" broke in the Franciscan with a sneer. Since the
beginning of the dinner he had not uttered a single word, his whole attention having been taking
up, no doubt, with the food. "It wasn't worth while to squander your fortune to learn so trifling a
thing. Any schoolboy knows that." Ibarra was placed in an embarrassing position, and the rest
looked from one to the other as if fearing a disagreeable scene. He was about to say, "The dinner
is nearly over and his Reverence is now satiated," but restrained himself and merely remarked to
the others, "Gentlemen, don't be surprised at the familiarity with which our former curate treats
me. He treated me so when I was a child, and the years seem to make no difference in his
Reverence. I appreciate it, too, because it recalls the days when his Reverence visited our home
and honored my father's table." The Dominican glanced furtively at the Franciscan, who was
trembling visibly. Ibarra continued as he rose from the table: "You will now permit me to retire,
since, as I have just arrived and must go away tomorrow morning, there remain some important
business matters for me to attend to. The principal part of the dinner is over and I drink but little
wine and seldom touch cordials. Gentlemen, all for Spain and the Philippines!" Saying this, he
drained his glass, which he had not before touched. The old lieutenant silently followed his
example. "Don't go!" whispered Capitan Tiago. "Maria Clara will be here. Isabel has gone to get
her. The new curate of your town, who is a saint, is also coming." "I'll call tomorrow before
starting. I've a very important visit to make now." With this he went away. Meanwhile the
Franciscan had recovered himself. "Do you see?" he said to the rubicund youth, at the same time
flourishing his dessert spoon. "That comes from pride. They can't stand to have the curate correct
them. They even think that they are respectable persons. It's the evil result of sending young
men to Europe. The government ought to prohibit it." "And how about the lieutenant?" Dona
Victorina chimed in upon the Franciscan, "he didn't get the frown off his face the whole evening.
He did well to leave us so old and still only a lieutenant!" The lady could not forget the allusion
to her frizzes and the trampled ruffles of her gown. That night the rubicund youth wrote down,
among other things, the following title for a chapter in his Colonial Studies: "Concerning the
manner in which the neck and wing of a chicken in a friar's plate of soup may disturb the
merriment of a feast." Among his notes there appeared these observations: "In the Philippines
the most unnecessary person at a dinner is he who gives it, for they are quite capable of beginning
by throwing the host into the street and then everything will go on smoothly. Under present

conditions it would perhaps be a good thing not to allow the Filipinos to leave the country, and
even not to teach them to read."

IV. Heretic and Filibuster.Ibarra stood undecided for a moment. The night breeze, which
during those months blows cool enough in Manila, seemed to drive from his forehead the light
cloud that had darkened it. He took off his hat and drew a deep breath. Carriages flashed by,
public rigs moved along at a sleepy pace, pedestrians of many nationalities were passing. He
walked along at that irregular pace which indicates thoughtful abstraction or freedom from care,
directing his steps toward Binondo Plaza and looking about him as if to recall the place. There
were the same streets and the identical houses with their white and blue walls, whitewashed, or
frescoed in bad imitation of granite; the church continued to show its illuminated clock face; there
were the same Chinese shops with their soiled curtains and their iron gratings, in one of which
was a bar that he, in imitation of the street urchins of Manila, had twisted one night; it was still
unstraightened. "How slowly everything moves," he murmured as he turned into Calle Sacristia.
The icecream venders were repeating the same shrill cry, "Sorbeteee!" while the smoky lamps
still lighted the identical Chinese stands and those of the old women who sold candy and fruit.
"Wonderful!" he exclaimed. "There's the same Chinese who was here seven years ago, and that
old woman--the very same! It might be said that tonight I've dreamed of a seven years' journey
in Europe. Good heavens, that pavement is still in the same unrepaired condition as when I left!"
True it was that the stones of the sidewalk on the corner of San Jacinto and Sacristia were still
loose. While he was meditating upon this marvel of the city's stability in a country where
everything is so unstable, a hand was placed lightly on his shoulder. He raised his head to see
the old lieutenant gazing at him with something like a smile in place of the hard expression and
the frown which usually characterized him. "Young man, be careful! Learn from your father!" was
the abrupt greeting of the old soldier. "Pardon me, but you seem to have thought a great deal of
my father. Can you tell me how he died?" asked Ibarra, staring at him. "What! Don't you know
about it?" asked the officer. "I asked Don Santiago about it, but he wouldn't promise to tell me
until tomorrow. Perhaps you know?" "I should say I do, as does everybody else. He died in
prison!" The young man stepped backward a pace and gazed searchingly at the lieutenant. "In
prison? Who died in prison?"

"Your father, man, since he was in confinement," was the somewhat surprised answer. "My
father--in prison--confined in a prison? What are you talking about? Do you know who my father
was? Are you--?" demanded the young man, seizing the officer's arm. "I rather think that I'm not
mistaken. He was Don Rafael Ibarra." "Yes, Don Rafael Ibarra," echoed the youth weakly. "Well,
I thought you knew about it," muttered the soldier in a tone of compassion as he saw what was
passing in Ibarra's mind. "I supposed that you--but be brave! Here one cannot be honest and
keep out of jail." "I must believe that you are not joking with me," replied Ibarra in a weak voice,
after a few moments' silence. "Can you tell me why he was in prison?" The old man seemed to
be perplexed. "It's strange to me that your family affairs were not made known to you." "His last
letter, a year ago, said that I should not be uneasy if he did not write, as he was very busy. He
charged me to continue my studies and--sent me his blessing." "Then he wrote that letter to you
just before he died. It will soon be a year since we buried him." "But why was my father a
prisoner?" "For a very honorable reason. But come with me to the barracks and I'll tell you as we
go along. Take my arm." They moved along for some time in silence. The elder seemed to be in
deep thought and to be seeking inspiration from his goatee, which he stroked continually. "As
you well know," he began, "your father was the richest man in the province, and while many
loved and respected him, there were also some who envied and hated him. We Spaniards who
come to the Philippines are unfortunately not all we ought to be. I say this as much on account
of one of your ancestors as on account of your father's enemies. The continual changes, the
corruption in the higher circles, the favoritism, the low cost and the shortness of the journey, are
to blame for it all. The worst characters of the Peninsula come here, and even if a good man does
come, the country soon ruins him. So it was that your father had a number of enemies among
the curates and other Spaniards." Here he hesitated for a while. "Some months after your
departure the troubles with Padre Damaso began, but I am unable to explain the real cause of
them. Fray Damaso accused him of not coming to confession, although he had not done so
formerly and they had nevertheless been good friends, as you may still remember. Moreover,
Don Rafael was a very upright man, more so than many of those who regularly attend confession
and than the confessors themselves. He had framed for himself a rigid morality and often said to
me, when he talked of these troubles, 'Senor Guevara, do you believe that

God will pardon any crime, a murder for instance, solely by a man's telling it to a priest --a man
after all and one whose duty it is to keep quiet about it-- by his fearing that he will roast in hell
as a penance--by being cowardly and certainly shameless into the bargain? I have another
conception of God,' he used to say, 'for in my opinion one evil does not correct another, nor is a
crime to be expiated by vain lamentings or by giving alms to the Church. Take this example: if I
have killed the father of a family, if I have made of a woman a sorrowing widow and destitute
orphans of some happy children, have I satisfied eternal Justice by letting myself be hanged, or
by entrusting my secret to one who is obliged to guard it for me, or by giving alms to priests who
are least in need of them, or by buying indulgences and lamenting night and day? What of the
widow and the orphans? My conscience tells me that I should try to take the place of him whom
I killed, that I should dedicate my whole life to the welfare of the family whose misfortunes I
caused. But even so, who can replace the love of a husband and a father?' Thus your father
reasoned and by this strict standard of conduct regulated all his actions, so that it can be said
that he never injured anybody. On the contrary, he endeavored by his good deeds to wipe out
some injustices which he said your ancestors had committed. But to get back to his troubles with
the curate-these took on a serious aspect. Padre Damaso denounced him from the pulpit, and
that he did not expressly name him was a miracle, since anything might have been expected of
such a character. I foresaw that sooner or later the affair would have serious results." Again the
old lieutenant paused. "There happened to be wandering about the province an exartilleryman
who has been discharged from the army on account of his stupidity and ignorance. As the man
had to live and he was not permitted to engage in manual labor, which would injure our prestige,
he somehow or other obtained a position as collector of the tax on vehicles. The poor devil had
no education at all, a fact of which the natives soon became aware, as it was a marvel for them
to see a Spaniard who didn't know how to read and write. Every one ridiculed him and the
payment of the tax was the occasion of broad smiles. He knew that he was an object of ridicule
and this tended to sour his disposition even more, rough and bad as it had formerly been. They
would purposely hand him the papers upside down to see his efforts to read them, and wherever
he found a blank space he would scribble a lot of pothooks which rather fitly passed for his
signature. The natives mocked while they paid him. He swallowed his pride and made the
collections, but was in such a state of mind that he had no respect for any one. He even came to
have some hard words with your father. "One day it happened that he was in a shop turning a
document over and over in the effort to get it straight when a schoolboy began to make signs to
his companions and to point laughingly at the collector with his finger. The fellow heard the
laughter and saw the joke reflected in the solemn faces of the bystanders. He lost his patience
and, turning quickly, started to chase the boys, who ran away shouting ba, be, bi, bo, bu. Blind
with rage and unable to catch them, he threw his cane and struck one of the boys on the head,
knocking him down. He ran up and began to kick the fallen boy, and none of those who had been
laughing had the courage to interfere. Unfortunately, your father happened to come along just
at that time. He ran forward indignantly, caught the collector by the arm, and reprimanded him
severely. The artilleryman, who was no doubt beside himself with rage, raised his hand, but your
father was too quick for him, and with the strength of a descendant of the Basques-some say
that he struck him, others that he merely pushed him, but at any rate the man staggered and

fell a little way off, striking his head against a stone. Don Rafael quietly picked the wounded boy
up and carried him to the town hall. The artilleryman bled freely from the mouth and died a few
moments later without recovering consciousness. "As was to be expected, the authorities
intervened and arrested your father. All his hidden enemies at once rose up and false accusations
came from all sides. He was accused of being a heretic and a filibuster. To be a heretic is a great
danger anywhere, but especially so at that time when the province was governed by an alcalde
who made a great show of his piety, who with his servants used to recite his rosary in the church
in a loud voice, perhaps that all might hear and pray with him. But to be a filibuster is worse than
to be a heretic and to kill three or four tax-collectors who know how to read, write, and attend
to business. Every one abandoned him, and his books and papers were seized. He was accused
of subscribing to El Correo de Ultramar, and to newspapers from Madrid, of having sent you to
Germany, of having in his possession letters and a photograph of a priest who had been legally
executed, and I don't know what not. Everything served as an accusation, even the fact that he,
a descendant of Peninsulars, wore a camisa. Had it been any one but your father, it is likely that
he would soon have been set free, as there was a physician who ascribed the death of the
unfortunate collector to a hemorrhage. But his wealth, his confidence in the law, and his hatred
of everything that was not legal and just, wrought his undoing. In spite of my repugnance to
asking for mercy from any one, I applied personally to the Captain-General--the predecessor of
our present one--and urged upon him that there could not be anything of the filibuster about a
man who took up with all the Spaniards, even the poor emigrants, and gave them food and
shelter, and in whose veins yet flowed the generous blood of Spain. It was in vain that I pledged
my life and swore by my poverty and my military honor. I succeeded only in being coldly listened
to and roughly sent away with the epithet of chiflado." The old man paused to take a deep breath,
and after noticing the silence of his companion, who was listening with averted face, continued:
"At your father's request I prepared the defense in the case. I went first to the celebrated Filipino
lawyer, young A----, but he refused to take the case. 'I should lose it,' he told me, 'and my
defending him would furnish the motive for another charge against him and perhaps one against
me. Go to Senor M----, who is a forceful and fluent speaker and a Peninsular of great influence.'
I did so, and the noted lawyer took charge of the case, and conducted it with mastery and
brilliance. But your father's enemies were numerous, some of them hidden and unknown. False
witnesses abounded, and their calumnies, which under other circumstances would have melted
away before a sarcastic phrase from the defense, here assumed shape and substance. If the
lawyer succeeded in destroying the force of their testimony by making them contradict each other
and even perjure themselves, new charges were at once preferred. They accused him of having
illegally taken possession of a great deal of land and demanded damages. They said that he
maintained relations with the tulisanes in order that his crops and animals might not be molested
by them. At last the case became so confused that at the end of a year no one understood it.
The alcalde had to leave and there came in his place one who had the reputation of being honest,
but unfortunately he stayed only a few months, and his successor was too fond of good horses.
"The sufferings, the worries, the hard life in the prison, or the pain of seeing so much ingratitude,
broke your father's iron constitution and he fell ill with that malady which only the tomb can cure.
When the

case was almost finished and he was about to be acquitted of the charge of being an enemy of
the fatherland and of being the murderer of the tax-collector, he died in the prison with no one
at his side. I arrived just in time to see him breathe his last." The old lieutenant became silent,
but still Ibarra said nothing. They had arrived meanwhile at the door of the barracks, so the
soldier stopped and said, as he grasped the youth's hand, "Young man, for details ask Capitan
Tiago. Now, good night, as I must return to duty and see that all's well." Silently, but with great
feeling, Ibarra shook the lieutenant's bony hand and followed him with his eyes until he
disappeared. Then he turned slowly and signaled to a passing carriage. "To Lala's Hotel," was the
direction he gave in a scarcely audible voice. "This fellow must have just got out of jail," thought
the cochero as he whipped up his horses.

Retrieved from https://pdfcoffee.com/excerpts-from-noli-me-tangere-pdf-free.html