The Social Cancer, by José Rizal - Home
The Social Cancer, by José Rizal - Home
The Social Cancer, by José Rizal - Home
You also want an ePaper? Increase the reach of your titles
YUMPU automatically turns print PDFs into web optimized ePapers that Google loves.
CHAPTER I 25<br />
CHAPTER I<br />
A <strong>Social</strong> Gathering<br />
On the last of October Don Santiago de los Santos, popularly known as Capitan Tiago, gave a dinner. In spite<br />
of the fact that, contrary to his usual custom, he had made the announcement only that afternoon, it was<br />
already the sole topic of conversation in Binondo and adjacent districts, and even in the Walled City, for at<br />
that time Capitan Tiago was considered one of the most hospitable of men, and it was well known that his<br />
house, like his country, shut its doors against nothing except commerce and all new or bold ideas. Like an<br />
electric shock the announcement ran through the world of parasites, bores, and hangers-on, whom God in His<br />
infinite bounty creates and so kindly multiplies in Manila. Some looked at once for shoe-polish, others for<br />
buttons and cravats, but all were especially concerned about how to greet the master of the house in the most<br />
familiar tone, in order to create an atmosphere of ancient friendship or, if occasion should arise, to excuse a<br />
late arrival.<br />
This dinner was given in a house on Calle Anloague, and although we do not remember the number we will<br />
describe it in such a way that it may still be recognized, provided the earthquakes have not destroyed it. We do<br />
not believe that its owner has had it torn down, for such labors are generally entrusted to God or nature--which<br />
Powers hold the contracts also for many of the projects of our government. It is a rather large building, in the<br />
style of many in the country, and fronts upon the arm of the Pasig which is known to some as the Binondo<br />
River, and which, like all the streams in Manila, plays the varied rôles of bath, sewer, laundry, fishery, means<br />
of transportation and communication, and even drinking water if the Chinese water-carrier finds it convenient.<br />
It is worthy of note that in the distance of nearly a mile this important artery of the district, where traffic is<br />
most dense and movement most deafening, can boast of only one wooden bridge, which is out of repair on<br />
one side for six months and impassable on the other for the rest of the year, so that during the hot season the<br />
ponies take advantage of this permanent status quo to jump off the bridge into the water, to the great surprise<br />
of the abstracted mortal who may be dozing inside the carriage or philosophizing upon the progress of the age.<br />
<strong>The</strong> house of which we are speaking is somewhat low and not exactly correct in all its lines: whether the<br />
architect who built it was afflicted with poor eyesight or whether the earthquakes and typhoons have twisted it<br />
out of shape, no one can say with certainty. A wide staircase with green newels and carpeted steps leads from<br />
the tiled entrance up to the main floor between rows of flower-pots set upon pedestals of motley-colored and<br />
fantastically decorated Chinese porcelain. Since there are neither porters nor servants who demand invitation<br />
cards, we will go in, O you who read this, whether friend or foe, if you are attracted <strong>by</strong> the strains of the<br />
orchestra, the lights, or the suggestive rattling of dishes, knives, and forks, and if you wish to see what such a<br />
gathering is like in the distant Pearl of the Orient. Gladly, and for my own comfort, I should spare you this<br />
description of the house, were it not of great importance, since we mortals in general are very much like<br />
tortoises: we are esteemed and classified according to our shells; in this and still other respects the mortals of<br />
the Philippines in particular also resemble tortoises.<br />
If we go up the stairs, we immediately find ourselves in a spacious hallway, called there, for some unknown<br />
reason, the caida, which tonight serves as the dining-room and at the same time affords a place for the<br />
orchestra. In the center a large table profusely and expensively decorated seems to beckon to the hanger-on<br />
with sweet promises, while it threatens the bashful maiden, the simple dalaga, with two mortal hours in the<br />
company of strangers whose language and conversation usually have a very restricted and special character.<br />
Contrasted with these terrestrial preparations are the motley paintings on the walls representing religious<br />
matters, such as "Purgatory," "Hell," "<strong>The</strong> Last Judgment," "<strong>The</strong> Death of the Just," and "<strong>The</strong> Death of the<br />
Sinner."<br />
At the back of the room, fastened in a splendid and elegant framework, in the Renaissance style, possibly <strong>by</strong><br />
Arévalo, is a glass case in which are seen the figures of two old women. <strong>The</strong> inscription on this reads: "Our