Noli Me Tangere (Touch Me Not)

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 .⁷ 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,⁸ 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 Pasig⁹ 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 caída (I am not sure why),¹¹ 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 Arévalo¹³ 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.¹⁴ 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.

The men were noisier. A few cadets were engaged in a lively conversation in a corner, though quietly. From time to time they would look up at various people in the room, point at them, and laugh among themselves, though they tried to hide their laughter. Nearby, two foreigners dressed in white, their hands clasped behind their backs, strolled from one end of the room to the other without saying a word, taking large steps like bored passengers aboard a ship. Much of the interest and certainly the most animation came from a group composed of two friars, a soldier, and two laymen seated around a small table laid with bottles of wine and English biscuits.

The soldier was an old lieutenant, tall and severe; he looked like a Duke of Alba¹⁷ abandoned in the ranks of the Civil Guard;¹⁸ he spoke little, and brusquely even then. One of the friars, a young Dominican, handsome, graceful, and as bright as his gold-rimmed glasses, was prematurely serious. He was Binondo’s parish priest, who in years past was a professor in San Juan de Letrán.¹⁹ He had a reputation for being a consummate casuist, so much so that when the Sons of Guzmán²⁰ dared argue subtleties with lay brothers, even the agile debater Benedicto de Luna²¹ could not draw them in or catch them out: the subtle arguments of Fray Sibyla left them like the fisherman who tried to catch an eel on a string. The Dominican spoke little and seemed to weigh his words carefully.

In contrast, the other was a Franciscan who spoke a great deal and gesticulated even more. Though his hair was beginning to gray, his constitution seemed to have remained robust. Regular features, a disquieting mien, a square jaw, and a Herculean frame made him look like a Roman patrician in disguise. We are reminded unfortunately of one of the three monks in Heine’s The Gods in Exile who crossed a Tyrolean lake at midnight on the day of the autumnal equinox, each time leaving an ice-cold silver coin in the terrified boatman’s hand.²² Unlike the monks, however, Fray Dámaso was not mysterious; he was lively, and if his voice had the quality of someone who has never held his tongue, who thinks of himself as holy and what he says memorable, his gay, open laughter erased that disagreeable impression. One could even excuse the sight of bare feet and hairy legs that would have made the fortune of a Mendieta in the fairs at Quiapo.²³

The only distinguishing characteristic of one of the civilians, a short man with a black beard, was his nose, which, judging by its dimensions, should never have been his; the other, a young blond man, seemed to have only recently arrived in the country. The Franciscan was engaged in lively conversation with him.

You’ll see, he was saying, after a few months here you’ll understand what I’m talking about. It is one thing to govern in Madrid, and another to be in the Philippines.

But—

Take me, for example, Fray Dámaso continued, raising his voice to keep the young man from getting a word in, "I have had twenty-three years of rice and bananas, and I can speak with authority. Don’t give me your theories or rhetoric. I know the indio. ²⁴ You have to understand that when I arrived in this country I was posted to a small town. Though it was small, its people were extraordinarily hardworking farmers. To this day I cannot understand Tagalog very well, but still I heard confession from the women there, and we were able to make ourselves understood. They came to love me so much that three years later, when I was transferred to the curacy of a larger town, which had become vacant because of the death of the indio priest, everyone cried, they showered me with gifts, they saw me off with music . . ."

But that only shows—

Just a minute, just a minute, not so fast! My successor stayed less time, and when he left he had more people see him off, more tears, and more music, even though he had beaten them more than I had and had almost doubled the parish taxes.

If you will allow me—

Even more so, I was in the town of San Diego for twenty years. I left there only a few months ago . . . At this point he seemed to become disgusted. Twenty years is more than enough to know a town, and no one can convince me otherwise. San Diego had six thousand souls, and I knew all the townspeople as if I myself had given birth to them and I myself had nursed them. I knew on which foot this one limped, which shoe was too tight for that one, who was courting which young woman, which sins this one had committed and with whom, who was the real father of that child, and so on, since I heard everyone’s confession and they certainly knew better than to ignore that responsibility. Ask our host, Santiago, if I am wrong. He has a great deal of property there, which is where we became friends. You will see what the indio is like; when I left there only a few old women and a few tertiary brothers saw me off, after I had been there for twenty years!

But I don’t know what this has to do with the end of the tobacco monopoly,²⁵ replied the blond man, taking advantage of a pause when the Franciscan drank a glass of sherry.

Fray Dámaso was so surprised he nearly dropped his glass. He stared at the young man for a moment.

What? What? he exclaimed histrionically. It’s as clear as day and you can’t see it? You are a child of God, and yet you can’t see that all this is palpable proof that the ministerial reforms are irrational?

The blond man was stunned. The lieutenant frowned even more deeply. The little man shook his head either in agreement with Fray Dámaso or in disagreement. The Dominican had to be satisfied with virtually turning his back on all of them.

In the end, looking at the friar with curiosity, all the young man could say with any seriousness was, Do you believe . . .

Do I believe? As I believe in the Gospel! Indios are incredibly lazy!²⁶

Ah, excuse me for interrupting, said the young man, lowering his voice and bringing his chair a little closer. "You have used a very interesting word. Are these natives truly indolent by nature, or is it, as a foreign traveler has said, that we make excuses for our own indolence, our backwardness, and our colonial system by calling them indolent? It has been said of other colonies whose inhabitants are of the same race . . ."

Bah! Jealousy! Ask Señor Laruja, who also knows the country well. Ask him if the indio’s ignorance and indolence are equaled anywhere!

In fact, answered the little man, who was the man in question, nowhere else in the world will you find anyone lazier than indios, nowhere else!

Or more vicious! Or more ungrateful!

Or more ill-bred!

The young blond man began looking around uncomfortably.

Gentlemen, he said quietly, I believe we are in the house of an indio. These young ladies—

"Bah! Don’t be so nervous! Santiago doesn’t think of himself as indio, and, besides, he’s not here, and even if he were! The foolishness of these newcomers. Let a few months go by. They’ll change their minds after they have been to a few parties and bailújan ,²⁷ slept on a few cots, and eaten a lot of tinola."²⁸

Is it plausible the idea that what you call tinola is a fruit of the lotus family that makes men . . . well . . . forgetful?

Neither lotus nor lottery, replied Padre Dámaso, laughing, "Don’t be absurd! Tinola is a gulai²⁹ of chicken and pumpkin. When did you get here?"

Four days ago, replied the young man, a bit irritated.

Did you come out here with a job?

No, sir, I came on my own account, to get to know the country.

Lord, what a rare bird! exclaimed Fray Dámaso, looking at him curiously. To come on your own account, and with such lunatic notions. What an idea! When there are so many books . . . with just a little intelligence . . . and many men have written great books in this way! . . . Just a little intelligence—

You have said, your reverence, Father Dámaso, the Dominican hastily interrupted, cutting the conversation short, that you spent twenty years in the town of San Diego and then left. Were you unhappy with the town, your reverence?

Fray Dámaso, upon hearing the question posed with such an innocent, almost impassive, tone, suddenly forgot his liveliness and stopped laughing.

No! he grunted dryly, and dropped heavily against the back of the chair.

The Dominican went on, even more indifference in his voice.

"It must be painful to leave a town where you have been for twenty years and you know as well as you know your own habit. For my part, at least, I was very sorry to leave Camiling,³⁰ and I was only there a few months . . . but my superiors did it for the community’s own good . . . and for my own."

For the first time that evening Fray Dámaso seemed preoccupied. Suddenly he smashed the arm of the chair with his fist and, breathing heavily, exclaimed:

"Either there is religion or there isn’t, and that’s that, either priests are free or they aren’t! The country is being lost . . . it is lost!"

And with that he punched the arm of the chair a second time.

The whole room was surprised, and turned toward the group: the Dominican lifted his head to peer at him from under his glasses. The two foreigners who were strolling back and forth stopped for a moment, looked at each other, grinned slightly, baring their incisors, and then quickly resumed their stroll.

He’s in a bad mood because they haven’t treated him with the proper respect, the young blond man whispered into Señor Laruja’s ear.

What do you mean, your reverence, what’s the matter? the Dominican and the lieutenant asked, with different tones of voice.

That’s why there are so many calamities! The governors support the heretics against God’s own ministers! the Franciscan continued, raising his powerful fists.

What do you mean? asked the frowning lieutenant again, who rose halfway out of his chair.

What do you mean? Dámaso repeated, raising his voice even higher and facing the lieutenant. I am telling you what I mean! I mean that when a priest tosses the body of a heretic out of his cemetery, no one, not even the king himself, has the right to interfere, and has even less right to impose punishment. And a general, a little general whose very name connotes calamity...³¹

Father, His Excellency is Vice Royal Patron!³² shouted the soldier while rising from his seat.

Some Excellency, some Vice Royal Patron! answered the Franciscan, getting up as well. "In any other time they would have kicked him down the stairs, as the religious orders once did with that impious Governor Bustamante.³³ Those were times of faith!"

I warn you that I will not permit . . . His Excellency represents His Majesty the King!

King or rook or nobody! To us there is no other king than the rightful—³⁴

Stop! yelled the lieutenant menacingly, as if he were addressing his soldiers. Either you retract what you have just said or tomorrow morning I will report it to His Excellency.

Why not do it right now, go ahead! Fray Dámaso replied sarcastically, coming toward him, his fists clenched. Do you for a moment think that because I wear a habit that I lack . . . ? Go ahead, I’ll even lend you my carriage!

The situation was taking a comical turn. Fortunately the Dominican intervened.

Gentlemen! he said with authority and with that nasal voice so sweet to a friar’s ears. "There is no need to confuse matters or seek offense where none exists. In Father Dámaso’s words we must make distinctions between those of the man and those of the priest. Those that proceed from the latter, as they are, per se, can never be offensive, because they are born from absolute truth. In those of the man one must make a further subdistinction: those that he says ab irato, those that he says ex ore but not in corde, and those in corde. The last of these are the only offensive ones and even that depends: if they are premeditated in mente, or result per accidens in the heat of the discussion, if there is—"³⁵

"Well, for accidens and for me I know his motives, Father Sibyla, interrupted the soldier, who found himself mixed up in so many distinctions that he was afraid he himself would not emerge from the conversation blameless. I know the motives and the ones you are going to distinguish, your reverence. While Father Dámaso was away in San Diego, the coadjutor buried the body of a very distinguished person, a very distinguished person. I have had many dealings with him and have been a guest in his home. So what if he never went to confession. So what? I don’t go to confession either. But to claim that he committed suicide is a lie, a slur. A man like him, with a son in whom he has placed all his hopes and affections, a man with faith in God, who understands his responsibilities to society, an honorable and just man, does not commit suicide. This is what I say, and I will say nothing else about what I think, and I thank you, your reverence."

Turning his back on the Franciscan, he went on:

Then this priest returned to the town and, after mistreating the poor coadjutor, had the body exhumed and taken out of the cemetery in order to bury it who knows where. The townspeople of San Diego were too cowardly to protest, and the truth is that very few of them knew about it: the dead man had no family, and his only son was in Europe. But His Excellency knew about it and because he is an upstanding man, he requested such a punishment . . . and Father Dámaso was transferred to a more appropriate town. That’s it. Now go ahead and make your distinctions.

With that, he left the group.

I am sorry that without knowing it I touched upon such a delicate matter, said Father Sibyla. But in the end if something has been gained by the changing of towns . . .

Gained? And what is lost when one is transferred? And the papers . . . and what is misplaced? Fray Dámaso stammered, unable to contain his anger.

The gathering slowly returned to its earlier tranquility.

In the meantime, a few other people had arrived, among them an old, lame Spanish man with a sweet, inoffensive look, who was supported under one arm by an old Philippine woman. Her face was made up and her hair had been curled, and she wore European-style clothes.

The group greeted them warmly. Doctor de Espadaña and his wife La Doctora Doña Victorina³⁶ sat among our friends. A few reporters and shopkeepers greeted one another and roamed about from one side to the other without knowing what to do.

Can you tell me, Señor Laruja, what is the master of the house like? asked the young blond man. I haven’t been introduced to him yet.

They say he has gone out. I haven’t seen him yet either.

There is no need for introductions here, Fray Dámaso interjected. Santiago is a good sort.

Very even-tempered and calm. Certainly not the sort of man who would, say, invent gunpowder, for instance,³⁷ added Laruja.

Señor Laruja! exclaimed Doña Victorina with a mild reproach. How could he invent gunpowder if, according to what they say, it was invented by the Chinese centuries ago?

The Chinese? Are you daft? exclaimed Fray Dámaso. A Franciscan invented it, one of my order, some Fray Savalls or something like that, in the . . . seventh century!

A Franciscan! Well, then he must have been a missionary in China, this Father Savalls, replied the señora, who was not willing to let go of her notions.

"Schwartz,³⁸ you mean, madam," put in Fray Sibyla, without looking at her.

I have no idea. Fray Dámaso said Savalls. I’m only repeating what he said!

All right. Savalls or Chevas, who cares? Change one letter and he’s no longer Chinese, the Franciscan replied, now in a bad mood.

And in the fourteenth century, not the seventh, corrected the Dominican in such a way as to take the other man down a notch.

Well, one century more or less still doesn’t make him a Dominican!

Please, don’t make his reverence angry! said Father Sibyla with a smile. Maybe he did invent it. At least it saved his brothers from having to do it.

So, Father Sibyla, you say that it was the fourteenth century? Doña Victorina said with great interest. Before or after the birth of Christ?

Happily for the man who had been asked that question, two - people then entered the room.

CHAPTER 2

CRISÓSTOMO IBARRA

It wasn’t beautiful, handsomely dressed young women who commanded everyone’s attention (even that of Fray Sibyla). It wasn’t His Excellency the Captain General and his adjutants who drew the lieutenant out of his reverie and made him come forward a few steps, or that stopped Fray Dámaso in his tracks as if petrified, it was merely the original of the portrait of the man in tails leading by the hand a young man dressed in deep mourning.

Good evening, gentlemen! Good evening, Father, was the first thing Captain Tiago said, kissing the hands of the priests, who forgot to give him their blessing.

The Dominican had removed his glasses in order to get a look at the young man who had just arrived, and a pale, gaping Father Dámaso.

I have the great pleasure of introducing to you Don Crisóstomo Ibarra, the son of my late friend, Captain Tiago continued. The gentleman has just arrived from Europe and I went to welcome him.

At the sound of the name, a few cries could be heard. The lieutenant forgot to greet his host. Instead, he approached the young man—who by then was exchanging the customary greetings with the whole group—and examined him from head to toe. There seemed nothing particularly striking about him in that room, except for his black suit. Nevertheless, his commanding height, his features, and his movements gave off that scent of healthy youth in which both the body and the soul have been equally cultivated. One - could see in his frank and lively expression, through a handsome brown color, a few traces of Spanish blood, and a bit of pink in his cheeks, perhaps the remnants of time spent in a colder climate.

Why, for heaven’s sake, he exclaimed with happy surprise, it’s my village priest! Father Dámaso, a close friend of my father’s!

Everyone looked toward the Franciscan, who did not move.

Excuse me, but perhaps I have made a mistake, added Ibarra, somewhat confused.

You are not mistaken, was all he was finally able to answer, his voice altered. But your father was never a close friend of mine.

Ibarra slowly withdrew the hand he had extended and looked at him with astonishment. Then he turned and found himself face-to-face with the severe figure of the lieutenant, who had been watching him all the while.

Young man, are you Don Rafael Ibarra’s son?

The young man bowed.

Father Dámaso sat partway down on the chair and fixed his gaze on the lieutenant.

Welcome home! May you be happier here than your father was! exclaimed the soldier in a trembling voice. I knew him and worked with him and may I say he was one of the most upstanding and honorable men in all the Philippines.

Sir! answered Ibarra, clearly moved. The elegy you have just given my father dispels any doubts I may have had about his fate, which I, his son, still do not know.

The old man’s eyes filled with tears. He turned around and hurried away.

The young man found himself alone in the center of the room. The owner of the house had disappeared and there was no one to introduce him to the young ladies, many of whom were looking at him with great interest. After vacillating for a few seconds, he went toward them with a simple, natural grace.

If you will allow me, he said, I hope we can leap over the rules of strict etiquette. I have not been in my home country for seven years, and now that I am back, I cannot refrain from greeting its most beautiful attribute, its women.

Since no one dared reply, the young man was obliged to retire. He went toward a group of gentlemen who, upon seeing him approach, formed a semicircle.

Gentlemen, he said, in Germany there is a custom: when a newcomer comes to a gathering and cannot find anyone to introduce him, he says his name and introduces himself, and they respond in kind. Allow me to do this, not in order to introduce foreign customs here, since our customs are certainly just as beautiful as theirs, but because I find myself in need of doing so. I have paid tribute to the heavens and to my homeland’s women; now I would like to pay tribute to its citizens, my compatriots. Gentlemen, my name is Juan Crisóstomo Ibarra y Magsalin!

They said their names, which were more or less insignificant, and more or less unknown.

And my name is A. . . . ! said a young man dryly, with a slight bow.

Do I have the honor of speaking with the poet whose work has helped sustain my enthusiasm for my homeland? I’ve been told you’re no longer writing, but no one has been able to tell me why . . .

Why? Because one does not invoke inspiration in order to humiliate oneself and to lie. One fellow has been brought up on charges for having included a certain figure of speech in his verse. I may be a poet, but I am not crazy.³⁹

And may I ask what figure of speech it was?

He said that the son of a lion is also a lion. He was almost exiled.

The strange young man then left the group.

A young man with a pleasant disposition came toward him, almost running. He was attired in the native dress of the country, with shiny buttons on his bib. He approached Ibarra and extended his hand saying:

"Señor Ibarra, I wanted so much to meet you. Captain Tiago is a friend of mine and I knew your good father . . . My name is Captain Tinong, I live in Tondo,⁴⁰ where you have a house. I hope you will honor me with a visit. Please come have dinner with us tomorrow."

Ibarra found such amiability enchanting. Captain Tinong smiled and rubbed his hands together.

Thank you, he answered with affection, but I am leaving for San Diego tomorrow . . .

What a shame! Then perhaps when you return.

Dinner is served, announced a waiter from the Café La Campana. ⁴¹

The people began to file in, though the women needed a great deal of prodding, especially the Philippine women.

CHAPTER 3

DINNER Jele jele bago quiere

⁴²

Fray Sibyla seemed content. He wandered about serenely, his thin lips pressed firmly together, though they had not yet begun to show their disdain. He even deigned to speak to the cripple, Doctor de Espadaña, who replied in monosyllables because he had a bit of a stutter. The Franciscan was in a frightful mood. He kicked aside the chairs in his way and even elbowed aside a cadet. The lieutenant had a serious look about him; everyone else chatted animatedly and gushed over the magnificence of the table. Doña Victorina, however, had crinkled up her nose. Suddenly she wheeled about, as angry as a trodden snake: the lieutenant had stepped on her train.

Don’t you have eyes? she said.

Yes, ma’am, better ones than you, but I couldn’t take them off your curls, the ungallant soldier replied, and then walked away.

Instinctively, or perhaps out of habit, the two priests went - toward the head of the table. As one might have guessed, the same thing occurred that occurs between rivals for a bishop’s chair. First they exaggerate the merits and superiority of their opponent. Then they express just the opposite, and finally they moan and groan when they don’t get it.

After you. Father Dámaso.

After you. Father Sibyla.

Our host’s oldest friend . . . the late mistress’s confessor . . . your age, your integrity, your position . . .

Let’s not say ‘very’ old. On the other hand, you are the parish priest, hissed Father Dámaso, without letting go of the chair, however.

Since these are your orders, I will obey, Father Sibyla said finally, getting ready to sit down.

I did not order you to do anything, the Franciscan protested, I did not order you to do anything!

Father Sibyla, ignoring these protests, had already begun to sit down when his eyes met those of the lieutenant. The highest-ranking officer is somewhat lower on the social scale than the lay brother who prepares meals at the parish house. Cedant arma togae, said Cicero⁴³ in the Senate; cedant arma cottae,⁴⁴ say the friars in the Philippines. But Father Sibyla was a cultured person, so he offered:

Lieutenant, here we are in the world, not in the church. Here the seat is yours.