Three Worlds 3: The Pacific

  Though utterly different in temperament and talents, Rizal and Del Pilar respected one another, and for a time Rizal wrote energetically for the new journal. But gradually their relationship became more and more strained. Del Pilar was eleven years older than Rizal, had spent years in the risky business of organizing in the Philippines, and in Spain was a shrewd, indefatigable lobbyist for detailed, practical political reform of state policies towards his country. Like Blumentritt, in fact, with whom he was also on excellent terms, he saw no plausible alternative line of action. But his position had three liabilities. The first and biggest was that he had to show that his policies had significant results, otherwise disillusion was bound to set in. We can see the pattern in the Calamba affair, where he worked untiringly for the cause of Rizal’s family and townspeople, but got nowhere. Second, the putative effectiveness of his lobbying depended on persuading Spanish politicians and publicists that the Filipino community in Spain was solidly behind him, which forced him to tolerate the gambling, womanizing, drinking and petty rivalries of which Rizal so sharply disapproved. Third, the editorial policy of La Solidaridad had to be the avoidance of anything that risked needlessly offending its Spanish readers, or being exploited by the rightwing press in Madrid. Rizal, on the other hand, away in northern Europe, had no practical political experience at all, either in the Philippines or in Spain. He did not have to produce practical results, tolerate what he regarded as the moral defects of many in the Filipino community, or worry much about the personal sensibilities of Spanish politicians and journalists he despised or detested. He was writing, he believed, for Filipino readers, not the Spanish public.

  It is striking that in April 1890, when things were still going well for both men, Rizal returned the edited copy of one of his articles, saying he had made all the recommended changes, but adding one pregnant sentence: any changes were acceptable “samantalang hindi mababago ang pagiisip, o hindi masisira kaya ang takbo ñg pananalita” (just so long as my thinking is not altered, or, accordingly, my way of expressing myself isn’t ruined).67 But on May 26, he wrote to Del Pilar that he had decided for the time being to stop writing for La Solidaridad, rather implausibly explaining that readers needed a “rest” from his essays, and other Filipinos needed more chance to prove themselves. Eleven days later a deeply worried Del Pilar replied, also in Tagalog, to ask for a clear explanation of what he done wrong so that he could repent, adding, sadly: “Maniwala kang sa mga kasaliwaang palad na nag sususon-suson sa buhay ko ay hindi makapayag yaring loob sa ganitong pañguñgulila” (Believe me, amidst the accumulating miseries and misfortunes of my life, I cannot bear the prospect of being so orphaned). Evidently touched by this appeal, Rizal replied that Del Pilar was overreacting and not taking at face value his reasons for discontinuing contributions to La Solidaridad.

  Ako’y sinisiglahan ñg malulungkot na pagiísip, bagama’t di lubos ang aking paniwala. Niaong kabataan ko’y paniwala akong lubos na di ako sasapit sa tatlong pung taon, aywan kung bakit gayon ang isipan ko. Mayroon na ngayong halos dalawang buan na halos gabi gabi’y wala akong ibang pangarap kundi ang mga patay kong kaibigan at kamaganak.

  My imagination is stirred by melancholy thoughts. When I was a child, I was certain that I would not live to be thirty, I don’t know why. It has been two months now that every night my dreams are only of dead friends and kin.68

  As 1890 wore on, Del Pilar was too overworked to handle La Solidaridad, and made the tactical error of turning the job over to the vain and ambitious creole Eduardo de Lete, who in his teens had been a good friend of Rizal but was turning against him, perhaps out of jealousy of the huge prestige Rizal had gained by Nolime tangere. Always touchy, the novelist more and more felt that his writings were censored if they appeared in La Solidaridad, and ignored or belittled if they appeared elsewhere. A factional rivalry among so-called Pilaristas and Rizalistas was becoming visible, rooted in personal conflicts, but expressed in internal arguments over “assimilation” versus “separatism.”

  Things came to a head at the end of the year when Rizal came to Madrid to urge the community to establish a constitution for itself, and elect a leader who would have the power to set policy.69 Apparently assured by letters he was getting from Manila that his writings were responsible for a major surge of patriotic activity, he seems to have been shocked when three successive ballots were divided almost equally between himself and Del Pilar, who had long been the de facto leader of the Filipinos in Spain. Finally, anxious to avoid a disastrous split, Del Pilar instructed his supporters to switch their votes to Rizal, who, annoyed by what had happened, then threatened to resign if a man he distrusted, but who was elected as one of two vice-leaders, was allowed to take up the position. Though formally triumphant, Rizal recognized that the unified support he had hoped for was a charade to mollify him, not a commitment to his goals. So he returned to Brussels, and resigned his position. In May 1891 he wrote to Del Pilar saying he would absolutely not write for La Solidaridad again, but would not oppose it. Instead he would busy himself with completing his new novel. Bitterness over this affair, which he himself had unwisely precipitated, had two different consequences. First, as we shall see, it centrally shaped the form and style of El Filibusterismo. Second, it greatly sharpened the hostility between the Pilarista and Rizalista factions, both of which worked on their symbolic leaders out of variously good and discreditable motives.

  It is noticeable that Rizal said nothing about all this to Blumentritt until October 9, on the eve of his final departure from Europe, and that the letter took the form of a defense of his decision to break with La Solidaridad, which had upset his friend.

  Du möchtest dass ich einen Artikel auf die Solid: schriebe leider muss ich dir gestehen, dass ich die Abzicht habe keinen Artikel mehr für jene Zeitung zu arbeiten. Dass hätte ich dir früher sagen können, aber ich wollte die unannehmlichen Angriffe gegen mich dir verbergen. Es haben viele Sachen unter uns passirt. Du schreibst ja, und ich stimme ganz überein was du schreiben kannst. Was Blumentritt und Rizal thun können, das kann Blumentritt allein. Ich habe viele Entwürfe vorgeschlagen, die haben gegen mich einen geheimen Krieg zugeführt; sie nannten mich Idol, sie sagten ich sei Despote u.s.w. als ich die Philippiner zum Arbeiten bringen wollten. Darüber schrieben sie nach Manila, alle Sachen ändern, und sagten ich wollte so und so, was nicht genau wahr ist. Von Manchem weiss ich dass, ehe mein Filibusterismo in Druck gegangen, sagte er schon es taugte nichts und sei dem Noli tief unterlie-gend. Da sind viele geheime Kleinigkeiten als ob man wünschte, meinen kleinen Ruhm zu vernichten. Ich ziehe mich zurück um das Schisma zu verhindern: mögen Andere die Politik zuführen. Sie sagte Rizal sei eine zu schwere Personalität; gut, der Rizal weicht ab. Hindernisse sollen nicht aus mich kommen. Es kann möglich sein dass man dir das Geschehene anders erzählen als es gegangen, wie es schon passirt, aber du hast einen scharfen Blick, und versteht mehr als was man dir sagt.

  You would like me write an article for Soli, but I must confess to you that my intention is not to work on any further article for that periodical. I could have told you this earlier, but I wanted to hide from you the disagreeable attacks against me. We have been through a lot together. You already write [for it], and I completely agree with what you can write. What Blumentritt and Rizal can do, Blumentritt can do on his own. I have suggested many projects, but they carried on a secret war against me; they call me “Idol,” say I am a despot, etc., when I wished to get the Filipinos to work. They wrote about all this to Manila, twisting the facts, saying that I wanted this and that—which was hardly the truth. From various people I have learned that even before my Filibusterismo went to press, they were already saying that it was worthless and far inferior to the Noli. Many secret pettinesses are going on, as though they wished to destroy the little reputation that I have. I am withdrawing in order to forestall a schism; let others take the political lead. They said that Rizal is too difficult a personality; good then, Rizal goes his own way; obstacles ought not to come from me. It is possible that they are telling you another version of what has happened, but you have a sharp eye and you understand more than what you hear.70

  Blumentritt’s immediate reply has been lost, but one can infer its substance from a letter of July 4, 1892, which, for reasons we will come to later, Rizal probably never received. The Austrian was unusually blunt. He said all the letters he had received from Del Pilar had expressed great appreciation for Rizal. He himself had strongly urged both Pilaristas and Rizalistas to forget petty personal differences, and avoid conflicts which could only benefit the common enemy and weaken the movement. He was advocating not a full peace, but only an intelligent truce. Furthermore, he absolutely disagreed with Rizal’s view of La Solidaridad, whose value was demonstrated by the fact that the enemy had recently established a fortnightly precisely to combat its influence. But, he added, one should not expect miracles from the periodical, let alone that it could achieve in four years what other peoples had taken four decades to accomplish. Filipinos should not despise it, since it defended the honor of their country and their people. “Perhaps my words are harsh and blunt, but my heart is tender and good, I will never abandon my poor Philippines; I shall not be a deserter.”71

  Rizal was increasingly certain that the whole assimilationist campaign was futile. Cuban representation in the Cortes was meaningless under the corrupt Cánovas—Sagasta electoral system. It had not stopped Spain from continued merciless exploitation of Cuban production through manipulated tariffs, monopolies, and subjection to Basque and Catalan business interests.72 Besides, Rizal believed, there was no chance whatever, at the end of the nineteenth century, of turning millions of Filipinos into assimilated Spanish-speakers. Sagasta’s sending of the brutal Weyler to Manila in 1888, and his own replacement by Cánovas in 1890, further deepened Rizal’s conviction that nothing could be successfully achieved in Spain. The work of emancipation would have to be done back home.

  It was in this frame of mind that he abandoned journalism in 1891 to focus entirely on El Filibusterismo, seeing it frantically through the press in August, after which he immediately headed home. If Noli me tangere was targeted at multiple audiences in Europe and the Philippines, El Filibusterismo was meant only for the latter. He sent a few copies to personal friends in Spain and elsewhere, but the rest of the entire edition was shipped to Hong Kong, where he intended to settle till Weyler’s term was over. To his trusted older friend Basa, one of the deported victims of Izquierdo twenty years earlier, who had settled in Hong Kong and become a successful businessman (and agile smuggler), he wrote an important letter from Ghent on July 9 entrusting the books to him, and urging complete secrecy in the face of clerical espionage which also stretched into the British colony. The letter is very bitter about his own extreme poverty, and the endless broken promises of financial help from rich members of the Filipino community in Spain.73

  Estoy cansado ya de creer en nuestros paisanos; todos parece que se han unído por amargarme la vida … ¡Ah! Le digo á V., que si no fuera por V., si no fuera porque creo que hay todavía verdaderos buenos filipinos, ¡me dan ganas de enviar al diablo paisanos y todo! ¿Por quién me han tomado? Precisamente, cuando uno necesita tener su espíritu tranquilo y su imaginación libre, ¡venirle á uno con engaños y mezquindades!

  I am tired of trusting in our fellow countrymen; they all seem to have joined hands to embitter my life … Ah! I tell you [frankly], that if it were not for you, if it were not that that I believe that there are still [some] genuinely good Filipinos, I would readily send fellow countrymen and all to the devil! What do they take me for? Exactly at the moment when one needs to keep one’s spirit tranquil and one’s imagination free, they come at one with intrigues and petty meannesses!74

  A MISSING LIBRARY?

  Before turning to reconsider some of the puzzles that face the reader of Rizal’s second novel, especially its apparently proleptic aspects, it is necessary to discuss briefly one serious investigative difficulty—the problem of Rizal’s philosophical formation in the political sphere. The list of the books in his Calamba library includes no volumes by political thinkers after the time of Voltaire, Rousseau, and Herder, unless we include Herbert Spencer. The character of this list might reasonably be explained by the risks involved, especially for his family, in trying to bring books of contemporary political theory into the colonial police state. But Rizal’s vast published correspondence within Europe shows a comparable absence. No mention of Constant, Hegel, Fichte, Marx, Tocqueville, Comte, Saint-Simon, Fourier, Bentham, Mill, Bakunin, or Kropotkin—only one-sentence casual allusions to Proudhon and Tolstoi. Is it possible that over the almost ten years he spent in Madrid, Paris, London, and Berlin, he managed to avoid or ignore all these influential political thinkers?

  Self-portrait of Juan Luna, aged 22.

  There is, so far, only one direct, if ambigous, clue—a letter of May 13, 1891, written to him in Brussels by his close friend in Paris, the painter Juan Luna. It is worth quoting at some length.

  Mañana se inaugura el Salón del Campo de Marte. Es la primera vez que tengo los dos cuadros en la cimaise ó zócalo. Me puedo dar por satisfecho (por ahora) que sabes cómo mando yo los cuadros, como patatas al mercado. A mi cuadro del entierro le titulé Les Ignorés y como habrás visto me ocupo ahora de los humildes y deshe-redados. ¿Qué libro me aconsejarías que lea para inspirarme en lo mismo? De alguno que hubiese escrito en contra de este tan desnudo materialismo y de esta explotación infame del pobre; de la lucha del rico con el miserable! Estoy buscando un asunto digno de ser desarrollado en una tela de ocho metros. Estoy leyendo Le Socialisme contemporaire por E. de Lavelaye, en donde he recopilado las teorías de Carl Marx, Lasalle, [sic] etc., el socialismo católico, el conservador, el evangélico, etc. Me interesa muchísimo. Pero yo lo que quisiera es un libro que pusiera en relieve las miserias de nuestra sociedad contemporánea; una especie de Divina Comedia, un Dante que se paseare por los talleres en donde apenas se respira y en donde vería á hombres, chiquillos y mujeres en el estado más miserable que imaginar se puede. Chico, yo mismo he ido á ver un fundición de hierro; he pasado allí cinco horas y créeme que por más duro que tenga uno el corazón, el espectáculo que yo vi allí me ha impresionado muchísimo. Nuestros compatriotas con todo lo malo que hacen allí los frailes, son felices comparados con esta miseria y muerte. Había un taller en donde se molía arena y carbón, éste al convertirse en polvo finísimo por la acción de los molinos se levantaba en grandes nubarrones, y toda la pieza parecía envuelta de humo: allí todo estaba lleno de polvo, y los diez ó doce trabajadores que se ocupaban en rellenar con sus palas el molino tenían el aspecto de cadáveres; ¡tal era la facha miserable de los pobres! Yo estuve 3 ó 4 minutos y me parecía que había tragado arena y polvo toda mi vida: se me metía por las narices, por la boca, por los ojos … y pensar que aquellos infelices respiraban 12 horas carbón y polvo; yo creo que infaliblemente están condenados á muerte y que es un crimen el abandonar así á tan pobre gente.

  Tomorrow is the opening of the Salon du Champ de Mars. It is the first time that I have two pictures on the cimaise [a small shelf used to prop up pictures] or on the socle. I can take some satisfaction from this (for the moment), since you know how I peddle my pictures, like potatoes in the market. To my painting of the burial I have given the title Les Ignorés, and as you will see [have seen?] I am busying myself now with the lowly and the disinherited. What book would you recommend me to read to inspire me in this plan? By someone who has written against such naked materialism and such infamous exploitation of the poor, and the war of the rich against the wretched! I am seeking a subject worthy of being developed into an eight-meter canvas. I am now reading Le Socialisme contemporaire by E. de Lavelaye, in which he has summarized the theories of Karl Marx, Lassalle, etc., Catholic socialism, conservative, evangelical, etc. The book interests me very much, but what I would like is a book that would highlight the miseries of our contemporary society, a kind of Divine Comedy, a Dante who would walk through workshops where one can hardly breathe, and where men, little kids, and women live in the most wretched conditions one could imagine. My dear fellow, I have myself gone to see an iron foundry. I spent five hours there, and believe me, no matter how hardhearted a person may be, the spectacle that I witnessed there made the deepest impression upon me. Despite all the evil that the friars commit over there, our compatriots are fortunate compared to this misery and death. There was a workshop there for grinding up sand and coal, which, converted into the finest dust by the action of the milling machine, swirled up in huge black clouds, and the whole room seemed swathed in smoke. Everything there was filled with dust, and the ten or twelve workers busy shoveling the coal and sand into the machine looked just like corpses. Such was the miserable sight of the poor! I stood there for three or four minutes, and it seemed as if I had swallowed sand and dust all my life; they penetrated me through the nostrils, the mouth and the eyes … And to think that those unfortunates breathe coal and dust twelve hours a day: I believe that they are inevitably condemned to death, and that it is a crime to abandon such poor people in this way.75

  Unfortunately we do not have Rizal’s reply to this missive. But Luna refers to Marx and Lassalle without further explanation, meaning that he knew Rizal needed none. Furthermore, though he was older than the novelist, he was asking him to recommend some inspirational reading on the ravages of contemporary industrial capitalism.