José Rizal

José Rizal HOME
José Rizal Noli Me Tángere (Touch Me Not) The first pages and selected excerpts CHAPTER 1 A GATHERING Toward the end of October, Don Santiago de los Santos, who was generally known as Captain Tiago, gave a dinner party that, despite its having been announced only that afternoon, which was not his usual practice, was the topic of every conversation in Binondo and neighboring areas, and even as far as Intramuros. In those days Captain Tiago was considered the most liberal of men, and it was known that the doors of his house, like those of his country, were closed to no one but tradesmen or perhaps a new or daring idea. The news surged like a jolt of electricity among the parasites, spongers, and freeloaders that God, in his infinite goodness, has so lovingly multiplied in Manila. Some went looking for boot-black, and others in search of collar buttons and cravats, but everyone, of course, spent time deciding on the best way to greet the master of the house with just the right amount of familiarity to make him believe in a past friendship, or, if necessary, how exactly to make excuses for not having come by sooner. The dinner was to be given in a house on Analoague Street, and since we no longer remember its number, we will describe it in such a way that it can still be recognized, if earthquakes haven't destroyed it. We don't believe the owner would have torn it down, because usually this sort of work is reserved for God or nature, which has, it appears, many projects of this type under contract with our government. It is quite a large structure, of a style similar to many others in the country, located near a section that overlooks a branch of the Pasig" often called the Binondo Creek, which plays, like many rivers in Manila, the multiple roles of bathhouse, sewer, laundry. fishing hole, thoroughfare, and even drinking water, if that serves the Interests of the Chinese water-seller. It is important to note that this vital district artery, where traffic is so bustling and bewildering, for over a length of almost a kilometer is served by just one wooden bridge, which for half the year is under repair on one end and for the remainder closed to traffic on the other, so that in the hot months horses take advantage of this permanent status quo to jump from it into the water, to the great surprise of the daydreaming individual as he dozes... or philosophizes on the century's progress. The house in question is somewhat squat, its lines fairly uneven. Whether the architect who built it could not see very well or this resulted from earthquakes or typhoons no one can say for sure. A wide, partly carpeted staircase with green balusters leads from the tiled doorway and vestibule to the main floor, flanked by Chinese porcelain flowerpots and vases of various colors and fantastic scenes, sitting on pedestals. Since no butlers or maids request invitation cards, or even inquire about them, let us go upstairs, my reader, my friend or foe, if you find the strains of the orchestra or the lights or the great clinking of the glasses and plates intriguing, and you wish to see a gathering in the Pearl of the Orient.10 If it were up to me, I would spare you a description of the house, but it is too important. We mortals are, in general, like tortoises: we value and classify ourselves according to our shells; but the people of the Philippines are like tortoises in other ways as well. If we go upstairs, we will suddenly find ourselves in a broad expanse called the caida (I am not sure why)," which tonight will serve both as a dining and music room. In the middle, a long table, abundantly and luxuriously appointed, seems to wink sweet promise at the freeloader while it threatens the simple dalaga¹2 with two deadly hours in the company of strangers whose language and conversation often take on a very odd character. In contrast to these worldly concerns is the assortment of paintings on the wall, which represents such religious scenes as purgatory, hell, the last judgment, the death of the righteous, and the death of the sinner. On the end wall, imprisoned in an elegant, splendid frame in a Renaissance style that Arévalo might have carved, is a curious canvas of grand dimension in which two old women are seen... The inscription reads: "Our Lady of Peace and Good Voyage, who is venerated in Antipolo, visits the pious and famous Capitana Inés during her illness, disguised as a beggar." The composition, which shows little taste or artistry, is, on the other hand, excessively realistic: the use of certain yellows and blues on her face makes the sick woman seem like a corpse in a state of putrefaction; the drinking glasses and other objects, the trappings of a long illness, are reproduced in such detail that one can even make out their contents. In contemplating these paintings, which whet the appetite and inspire bucolic thoughts, one might think that the perverse owner of the house was well aware of the character of most of those who were to sit at his table. And to further illuminate his thinking he has hung from the ceiling beautiful Chinese lamps, empty birdcages, frosted-glass balls in red, green, and blue, withered hanging plants, dried, inflated fish called botetes, 15 and other objects, surrounding it all on the side that overlooks the creek with fanciful half-Chinese, half-European wooden arches, which allow us to glimpse trellises and arbors on the terrace, dimly lit by multicolored paper lanterns. Over there in the room are the dinner guests, among colossal mirrors and brilliant chandeliers; over there, on a pine platform, is a magnificent grand piano worth a fortune, even more precious this evening because no one is playing it. Over there is a large oil portrait of a handsome man in a frock coat. He is stiff, straight, and as symmetrical as the tasseled mace he holds in his stiff, ring-covered fingers. The portrait seems to say, "So, look how well dressed and dignified I am!" The furniture is elegant, if uncomfortable and not suited to the climate; the owner of the house would never put his guests' health before luxury. "Dysentery is terrible, but you are sitting in European chairs, which you don't get to do every day!" he would tell them. The room is almost full, the men separated from the women like in Catholic churches and synagogues. The women's group is composed of a few young ladies, Filipinas and Spaniards: they open their mouths to stifle a yawn, but then immediately cover them with their fans; they barely whisper a few words, and any ventured conversation dies in monosyllables, like the nocturnal sounds of mice and lizards one hears in a house. Perhaps the various Our Ladies hanging on the walls have obliged them to be quiet and maintain a religious modesty, or is it that these women are different from most others? The only person to welcome these ladies was an old woman, a cousin of Captain Tiago, who had an open, friendly face and who spoke Castilian rather badly. Her notion of courtesy and sophistication was limited to offering the Spanish women a tray of cigarettes and buyos¹6 and extending her hand to be kissed, just as a friar might do. The poor old woman became bored and, taking advantage of the noise made by a plate breaking, quickly left the room muttering: "Jesus! Just you wait, you good-for-nothing...!" She never returned. “Man understood in the end what man is. He renounces the analysis of God, penetrating the impalpable, in which he has not seen, to give laws to the phantasms of his brain. Man understands that his inheritance is the greater world whose dominion is within his grasp. Tired of useless and presumptuous labor he bows his head and looks about him, and now he sees how our poets are born. Little by little nature's muses open their treasures and start to smile upon us, and lead us far from such labors.” “Our young people think about nothing more than love affairs and pleasure. They spend more time attempting to seduce and dishonor young women than in thinking about their country's welfare. Our women, in order to take care of the house and family of God, forget their own. Our men limit their activities to vice and their heroics to shameful acts. Children wake up in a fog of routine, adolescents live out their best years without ideals, and their elders are sterile, and only serve to corrupt our young people by their example. “What said those two souls communicating through the language of the eyes, more perfect than that of the lips, the language given to the soul in order that sound may not mar the ecstasy of feeling? In such moments, when the thoughts of two happy beings penetrate into each other’s souls through the eyes, the spoken word is halting, rude, and weak—it is as the harsh, slow roar of the thunder compared with the rapidity of the dazzling lightning flash, expressing feelings already recognized, ideas already understood, and if words are made use of it is only because the heart’s desire, dominating all the being and flooding it with happiness, wills that the whole human organism with all its physical and psychical powers give expression to the song of joy that rolls through the soul. To the questioning glance of love, as it flashes out and then conceals itself, speech has no reply; the smile, the kiss, the sigh answer.”

Noli Me Tángere
(Touch Me Not)

The first pages and selected excerpts

CHAPTER 1
A GATHERING

Toward the end of October, Don Santiago de los Santos, who was generally known as Captain Tiago, gave a dinner party that, despite its having been announced only that afternoon, which was not his usual practice, was the topic of every conversation in Binondo and neighboring areas, and even as far as Intramuros. In those days Captain Tiago was considered the most liberal of men, and it was known that the doors of his house, like those of his country, were closed to no one but tradesmen or perhaps a new or daring idea.

The news surged like a jolt of electricity among the parasites, spongers, and freeloaders that God, in his infinite goodness, has so lovingly multiplied in Manila. Some went looking for boot-black, and others in search of collar buttons and cravats, but everyone, of course, spent time deciding on the best way to greet the master of the house with just the right amount of familiarity to make him believe in a past friendship, or, if necessary, how exactly to make excuses for not having come by sooner.

The dinner was to be given in a house on Analoague Street, and since we no longer remember its number, we will describe it in such a way that it can still be recognized, if earthquakes haven't destroyed it. We don't believe the owner would have torn it down, because usually this sort of work is reserved for God or nature, which has, it appears, many projects of this type under contract with our government. It is quite a large structure, of a style similar to many others in the country, located near a section that overlooks a branch of the Pasig" often called the Binondo Creek, which plays, like many rivers in Manila, the multiple roles of bathhouse, sewer, laundry. fishing hole, thoroughfare, and even drinking water, if that serves the Interests of the Chinese water-seller. It is important to note that this vital district artery, where traffic is so bustling and bewildering, for over a length of almost a kilometer is served by just one wooden bridge, which for half the year is under repair on one end and for the remainder closed to traffic on the other, so that in the hot months horses take advantage of this permanent status quo to jump from it into the water, to the great surprise of the daydreaming individual as he dozes... or philosophizes on the century's progress.

The house in question is somewhat squat, its lines fairly uneven. Whether the architect who built it could not see very well or this resulted from earthquakes or typhoons no one can say for sure. A wide, partly carpeted staircase with green balusters leads from the tiled doorway and vestibule to the main floor, flanked by Chinese porcelain flowerpots and vases of various colors and fantastic scenes, sitting on pedestals.

Since no butlers or maids request invitation cards, or even inquire about them, let us go upstairs, my reader, my friend or foe, if you find the strains of the orchestra or the lights or the great clinking of the glasses and plates intriguing, and you wish to see a gathering in the Pearl of the Orient.10 If it were up to me, I would spare you a description of the house, but it is too important. We mortals are, in general, like tortoises: we value and classify ourselves according to our shells; but the people of the Philippines are like tortoises in other ways as well. If we go upstairs, we will suddenly find ourselves in a broad expanse called the caida (I am not sure why)," which tonight will serve both as a dining and music room. In the middle, a long table, abundantly and luxuriously appointed, seems to wink sweet promise at the freeloader while it threatens the simple dalaga¹2 with two deadly hours in the company of strangers whose language and conversation often take on a very odd character. In contrast to these worldly concerns is the assortment of paintings on the wall, which represents such religious scenes as purgatory, hell, the last judgment, the death of the righteous, and the death of the sinner. On the end wall, imprisoned in an elegant, splendid frame in a Renaissance style that Arévalo might have carved, is a curious canvas of grand dimension in which two old women are seen... The inscription reads: "Our Lady of Peace and Good Voyage, who is venerated in Antipolo, visits the pious and famous Capitana Inés during her illness, disguised as a beggar."

The composition, which shows little taste or artistry, is, on the other hand, excessively realistic: the use of certain yellows and blues on her face makes the sick woman seem like a corpse in a state of putrefaction; the drinking glasses and other objects, the trappings of a long illness, are reproduced in such detail that one can even make out their contents. In contemplating these paintings, which whet the appetite and inspire bucolic thoughts, one might think that the perverse owner of the house was well aware of the character of most of those who were to sit at his table. And to further illuminate his thinking he has hung from the ceiling beautiful Chinese lamps, empty birdcages, frosted-glass balls in red, green, and blue, withered hanging plants, dried, inflated fish called botetes, 15 and other objects, surrounding it all on the side that overlooks the creek with fanciful half-Chinese, half-European wooden arches, which allow us to glimpse trellises and arbors on the terrace, dimly lit by multicolored paper lanterns.

Over there in the room are the dinner guests, among colossal mirrors and brilliant chandeliers; over there, on a pine platform, is a magnificent grand piano worth a fortune, even more precious this evening because no one is playing it. Over there is a large oil portrait of a handsome man in a frock coat. He is stiff, straight, and as symmetrical as the tasseled mace he holds in his stiff, ring-covered fingers. The portrait seems to say, "So, look how well dressed and dignified I am!"

The furniture is elegant, if uncomfortable and not suited to the climate; the owner of the house would never put his guests' health before luxury. "Dysentery is terrible, but you are sitting in European chairs, which you don't get to do every day!" he would tell them.

The room is almost full, the men separated from the women like in Catholic churches and synagogues. The women's group is composed of a few young ladies, Filipinas and Spaniards: they open their mouths to stifle a yawn, but then immediately cover them with their fans; they barely whisper a few words, and any ventured conversation dies in monosyllables, like the nocturnal sounds of mice and lizards one hears in a house. Perhaps the various Our Ladies hanging on the walls have obliged them to be quiet and maintain a religious modesty, or is it that these women are different from most others?

The only person to welcome these ladies was an old woman, a cousin of Captain Tiago, who had an open, friendly face and who spoke Castilian rather badly. Her notion of courtesy and sophistication was limited to offering the Spanish women a tray of cigarettes and buyos¹6 and extending her hand to be kissed, just as a friar might do. The poor old woman became bored and, taking advantage of the noise made by a plate breaking, quickly left the room muttering:

"Jesus! Just you wait, you good-for-nothing...!"

She never returned.

“Man understood in the end what man is. He renounces the analysis of God, penetrating the impalpable, in which he has not seen, to give laws to the phantasms of his brain. Man understands that his inheritance is the greater world whose dominion is within his grasp. Tired of useless and presumptuous labor he bows his head and looks about him, and now he sees how our poets are born. Little by little nature's muses open their treasures and start to smile upon us, and lead us far from such labors.”

“Our young people think about nothing more than love affairs and pleasure. They spend more time attempting to seduce and dishonor young women than in thinking about their country's welfare. Our women, in order to take care of the house and family of God, forget their own. Our men limit their activities to vice and their heroics to shameful acts. Children wake up in a fog of routine, adolescents live out their best years without ideals, and their elders are sterile, and only serve to corrupt our young people by their example.

“What said those two souls communicating through the language of the eyes, more perfect than that of the lips, the language given to the soul in order that sound may not mar the ecstasy of feeling? In such moments, when the thoughts of two happy beings penetrate into each other’s souls through the eyes, the spoken word is halting, rude, and weak—it is as the harsh, slow roar of the thunder compared with the rapidity of the dazzling lightning flash, expressing feelings already recognized, ideas already understood, and if words are made use of it is only because the heart’s desire, dominating all the being and flooding it with happiness, wills that the whole human organism with all its physical and psychical powers give expression to the song of joy that rolls through the soul. To the questioning glance of love, as it flashes out and then conceals itself, speech has no reply; the smile, the kiss, the sigh answer.”

José Rizal

Noli Me Tángere (Touch Me Not)

Noli Me Tángere
(Touch Me Not)