The Social Cancer, by José Rizal - Home

CHAPTER XXIII 112
the cares and sorrows of the married state, yet not passing over its joys.
They then asked Maria Clara to sing, but she protested that all her songs were sad ones. This protest, however,
was overruled so she held back no longer. Taking the harp, she played a short prelude and then sang in a
harmonious and vibrating voice full of feeling:
Sweet are the hours in one's native land, Where all is dear the sunbeams bless; Life-giving breezes sweep the
strand, And death is soften'd by love's caress.
Warm kisses play on mother's lips, On her fond, tender breast awaking; When round her neck the soft arm
slips, And bright eyes smile, all love partaking.
Sweet is death for one's native land, Where all is dear the sunbeams bless; Dead is the breeze that sweeps the
strand, Without a mother, home, or love's caress.
The song ceased, the voice died away, the harp became silent, and they still listened; no one applauded. The
young women felt their eyes fill with tears, and Ibarra seemed to be unpleasantly affected. The youthful pilot
stared motionless into the distance.
Suddenly a thundering roar was heard, such that the women screamed and covered their ears; it was the
ex-theological student blowing with all the strength of his lungs on the tambuli, or carabao horn. Laughter and
cheerfulness returned while tear-dimmed eyes brightened. "Are you trying to deafen us, you heretic?" cried
Aunt Isabel.
"Madam," replied the offender gravely, "I once heard of a poor trumpeter on the banks of the Rhine who, by
playing on his trumpet, won in marriage a rich and noble maiden."
"That's right, the trumpeter of Sackingen!" exclaimed Ibarra, unable to resist taking part in the renewed
merriment.
"Do you hear that?" went on Albino. "Now I want to see if I can't have the same luck." So saying, he began to
blow with even more force into the resounding horn, holding it close to the ears of the girls who looked
saddest. As might be expected, a small tumult arose and the mothers finally reduced him to silence by beating
him with their slippers [71] and pinching him.
"My, oh my!" he complained as he felt of his smarting arms, "what a distance there is between the Philippines
and the banks of the Rhine! O tempora! O mores! Some are given honors and others sanbenitos!"
All laughed at this, even the grave Victoria, while Sinang, she of the smiling eyes, whispered to Maria Clara,
"Happy girl! I, too, would sing if I could!"
Andeng at length announced that the soup was ready to receive its guests, so the young fisherman climbed up
into the pen placed at the narrower end of the corral, over which might be written for the fishes, were they
able to read and understand Italian, "Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch' entrante," [72] for no fish that gets in
there is ever released except by death. This division of the corral encloses a circular space so arranged that a
man can stand on a platform in the upper part and draw the fish out with a small net.
"I shouldn't get tired fishing there with a pole and line," commented Sinang, trembling with pleasant
anticipation.
All were now watching and some even began to believe that they saw the fishes wriggling about in the net and
showing their glittering scales. But when the youth lowered his net not a fish leaped up.