12. In his Diario de viaje. De Calamba á Barcelona, included in Diarios y memorias, p. 57, the twenty-year-old Rizal wrote that (Rimbaud’s) Aden “me recordó el infierno de Dante” (reminded me of Dante’s Inferno). From a letter sent home from Barcelona on June 23, we know he stopped off to enjoy the pleasures of Pompeii and Herculaneum, and admired from on deck the island of If, where Edmond Dantés had been so long incarcerated. Cartas entre Rizal y los miembros de la familia, 1886–1887, which are in Correspondencia epistolar (Manila: Comisión del Centenario de José Rizal, 1961), Tomo II, Libro I, pp. 20–21.

  13. One Hundred Letters of José Rizal (Manila: National Historical Society, 1959), p. 26. Letter of June 23, 1882 from Barcelona. These letters were not available when the big Correspondencia epistolar was published.

  14. “Que nos tomen por chinos, americanos ó mulatos y muchos aun de los jóvenes estudiantes no saben si Filipinas pertenece á los ingleses ó los españoles. Un día preguntaban á uno de nuestros paisanos si Filipinas estaba muy lejos de Manila.” Ibid., p. 85. Letter home from Madrid dated January 29, 1883.

  15. In the first-class Avant-Propos she wrote to her new French translation of Noli me tangere, Jovita Ventura Castro noted that it was only after 1863 that students from the Philippines were permitted to enrol in metropolitan universities. The first to enrol were creoles physically indistinguishable from Spain-born Spaniards. Multicolored mestizos and indios seem only to have arrived in the later 1870s. They were thus something visibly new. See N’y touchez pas! (Paris: Gallimard, 1980); the edition was sponsored by Unesco.

  16. See my Imagined Communities (London: Verso, 1991), p. 57.

  17. See The Rizal–Blumentritt Correspondence, 1886–1889, p. 72. It is important to recognize that the German word Philippiner is uncontaminated by the ambiguities surrounding filipino. It is clearly and simply (proto)national.

  18. It is very striking that the words mestizo chino do not occur in Noli me tangere at all, and only once, in passing, in El Filibusterismo. There are plenty of characters whom one can assume are such mestizos, but Rizal is careful not to mention their give-away surnames. Sadly enough, Spanish prejudices against the Chinese were imbibed rather heavily by the young anticolonial elite.

  19. Mentioned in the Mexican Leopoldo Zea’s illuminating introduction to the Venezuelan edition of Noli me tangere (Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1976), p. xviii, citing the “Elogio” (Eulogy) by the Basque philosopher, essayist, poet and novelist Miguel de Unamuno y Jugo in W.E. Retana, Vida y escritos del Dr José Rizal (Madrid: Victoriano Suárez, 1907).

  20. Morayta particularly enraged the hierarchy by stressing that the Rig-Veda was much older than the Old Testament, proclaiming that the Egyptians had pioneered the idea of retribution in the afterlife, and discussing in sceptical terms the Flood, and a Creation which Rome still insisted had taken place in 4404 BC. Manuel Sarkisyanz, Rizal and Republican Spain (Manila: National Historical Institute, 1995), p. 205.

  21. Rizal, El Filibusterismo, endnotes, pp. 38–9. The editors add that congratulations and supportive protests came in from students in Bologna, Rome, Pisa, Paris, Lisbon, Coimbra, and various places in Germany.

  22. See the animated account Rizal gave his family in a letter of November 26, 1884, in One Hundred Letters, pp. 197–200.

  23. According to the 1860 census, most of the adult working population was occupationally distributed as follows: 2,345,000 rural labourers, 1,466,000 small proprietors, 808,000 servants, 665,000 artisans, 333,000 small businesspeople, 262,000 indigents, 150,000 factory workers, 100,000 in the liberal professions and related occupations, 70,000 “employees” (state functionaries?), 63,000 clergy (including 20,000 women), and 23,000 miners. Jean Bécarud and Gilles Lapouge, Anarchistes d’Espagne (Paris: André Balland, 1970), vol. I, pp. 14–15. Forty years later, in 1901, Barcelona alone had 500,000 workers, but half of them were illiterate. See J. Romero Maura, “Terrorism in Barcelona and Its Impact on Spanish Politics, 1904–1909,” Past and Present, 41 (December 1968), p. 164.

  Schumacher goes so far as to claim a level of equality in illiteracy between metropole and colony “unique in the history of colonization.” (In 1900, illiteracy among people over ten years old in Spain was 58.7 percent. The American-organized census of 1903 showed a figure of 55.5 percent for the Philippines—this figure takes into account various local languages, Spanish, and American.) The Propaganda Movement, p. 304, note 9.

  24. See the useful chronology on pp. 63–4 of Karl-Heinz Wionsek, ed., Germany, the Philippines, and the Spanish–American War, translated by Thomas Clark (Manila: National Historical Institute, 2000).

  25. See the vivid account and superb analysis in Kristin Ross, The Emergence of Social Space: Rimbaud and the Paris Commune (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1988); also James Joll, The Anarchists (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1980), pp. 148–9.

  26. See the detailed description in Guerrero, The First Filipino, p. 198.

  27. One Hundred Letters, p. 174. Letter home from Madrid, dated October 28, 1883. Spain seems not worth mentioning!

  28. For a tableau vivant, see Ramón Sempau, Los victimarios (Barcelona: Manent, 1901), p. 5. For an impressive listing of successful and failed attentats in Russia between 1877 and 1890, see Rafael Núñez Florencio, El terrorismo anarquista, 1888–1909 (Madrid: Siglo Veintiuno de España, SA, 1983), pp. 19–20.

  29. The groupuscule was characteristically named The People’s Retribution. Nechayev fled back to Switzerland, but was extradited in 1873, and sentenced to twenty years in prison. In 1882 he was “found dead in his cell” á la Baader-Meinhof.

  30. Núñez, El terrorismo, pp. 66–7; Norman Naimark, Terrorists and Social Democrats: The Russian Revolutionary Movement under Alexander III (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983), chapter 1; Derek Offord, The Russian Revolutionary Movement in the 1880s (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), chapter 1; and especially David Footman, Red Prelude, second edition (London: Barrie & Rockleff, 1968), passim. The first bomb failed to touch the Tsar. Realizing this, a figure whom Sempau names “Miguel Ivanovitch Elnikof,” but who was actually Ignatei Grinevitsky, came close enough before throwing a second bomb that he was killed along with his victim. An early suicide bomber, one could say. A valuable feature of Footman’s book is a biographical appendix on fifty-five Narodnaya Volya activists. Thirteen were executed, fourteen died in prison, fourteen more survived imprisonment, eight escaped abroad, four committed suicide during or after their attentats, and two went to work for the secret police.

  31. See the succinct account in Jean Maitron, Le mouvement anarchiste en France (Paris: Maspéro, 1975), vol. I (Dés origines à 1914), pp. 42–51.

  32. Maitron offers some interesting data in this regard. The single most important theoretical anarchist publication was Jean Grave’s Le Révolté, first published in safe Geneva in February 1879 with a print run that rose from 1,300 to 2,000 before Grave felt it was possible to relocate it to Paris (in 1885) and rename it La Révolte. By 1894, when it was smashed by the state in the wake of President Sadi Carnot’s assassination, it had a 7,000 print run, with subscribers in France, Algeria, the United States, Ukania, Switzerland, Belgium, Spain, Italy, Holland, Rumania, Uruguay, India, Egypt, Guatemala, Brazil, Chile, and Argentina. No Russians. Its “apache” opposite number, Emile Pouget’s satirical Le Père Peinard (“Bons bougres, lisez tous les dimanches”), had a slightly narrower stretch, which nonetheless, given that it was written in Parisian argot, is even more startling: Algeria, the United Kingdom, Tunisia, Argentina, Belgium, Spain, the United States, Italy, Switzerland, and Monaco. Le mouvement, pp. 141–6.

  33. See the detailed account in Nunzio Pernicone, Italian Anarchism, 1864–1892 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), pp. 118–28. Bakunin had settled in Florence in 1864, but moved to Naples in 1865, staying in the area till 1867. (He wrote to a Florentine follower: “There is infinitely more energy and genuine political and social life [here] than in Florence.”) He instituted the first Italian section of the International there, and Malatesta was one of his earliest recruits. Malatesta recalled later that the Russian “was the man who brought a breath of fresh air to the dead millpond of Neapolitan traditions, who opened the eyes of youths who approached him to vast new horizons.” In fact, the Mezzogiorno was a good place to start revolutionary activity since its heavily peasant economy had been ruined by the free-trade policies of Cavour and his successors, while its political class had come to feel they had no less been conquered by the House of Piedmont (in the aftermath of the Italian Reunification of 1861) than they had earlier been suppressed by the Spanish Bourbons. Pernicone also gives an excellent account of how Bakunin completely outmanoeuvred Marx and Engels in Italy, with the help of some stupidities of Engels and Mazzini’s hysterical attacks on the Commune, for which there was huge sympathy among Italian progressives. As Bakunin put it pithily, Mazzini “has always wanted the People for Italy, and not Italy for the People.” Ibid., pp. 17, 27, 44–53, and 24.

  34. Joll, The Anarchists, pp. 102–5.

  35. Maitron, Le mouvement, pp. 77–8.

  36. Ibid., p. 206.

  37. In fact there were two genuine anarchist attempts to kill Kaiser Wilhelm I in 1878, by Max Hödel on May 11, and by Karl Nobiling on June 2 (Pernicone, Italian Anarchism, p. 148). Another was uncovered after an explosion at police headquarters in Frankfurt. Its purported “anarchist” leader, August Reinsdorf, was quickly executed, while police chief Rumpf was assassinated shortly afterward: a murky affair, in which the manipulative hand of Rumpf is quite probable. In the years 1883 to 1885, there were bomb plots in London against the Tower, Victoria Station, and the House of Commons. See Núñez, El terrorismo, p. 18. These “events” were quickly reflected in Henry James’s Princess Casamassima (1886), and much later in Conrad’s The Secret Agent (1907) and Under Western Eyes (1911). Mention should also be made of the May 1882 Fenian assassination of Lord Cavendish, the new Chief Secretary for Ireland, and his undersecretary, though their status was well below that of the figures mentioned above, and though the Fenians, like the nationalists who killed Franz Ferdinand, were far from being anarchists.

  38. Pernicone, Italian Anarchism, p. 3. A supplementary, and contemporary, explanation is provided by Francesco Nitti, then a professor of political economy at the University of Naples, and much later prime minister, who amusingly lamented: “We must add that in the schools of Italy, an error never to be too much deplored, they make an apology for regicide. Unlearned teachers do not explain the difference between martyr and murderer. The history of ancient Rome is full of murders of tyrants or aspirants to tyranny. An individual becomes thus the avenger and deliverer of society. I take up by chance a manual of history, used in a great number of Italian schools. It is astonishing to observe how many tyrannicides they justify, from Brutus to Agesilao Milano. There is praise for all. There was a time when Italy, especially Central Italy, was full of little tyrants; the regicide became an emancipator. The tradition has been unfortunately perpetuated. Even the poets, in like manner, have not refused to applaud political murder, not only the less odious regicides, but also the worst ‘Italian Anarchists.’ ” North American Review, 167:5 (November 1898), pp. 598–607, at p. 607.

  39. Ibid., p. 7.

  40. See Pardo’s “Las Nihilistas,” The Women’s Outlook (Manila), November 10, 1922. Pardo’s uncle Joaquín (who had cared for him after his father’s early death), moved to Paris in 1875, after four years of exile in the Marianas, and summoned his nephew to join him. Like Rizal in Madrid, he studied both medicine (Sorbonne) and letters (École Nationale des Langues Orientales Vivantes), graduating in 1885. Though specializing in the languages of the Malay world, he knew both Russian and Sanskrit. For an astute account of Pardo’s chequered political career and intellectual contributions, see Resil Mojares’ just published Brains of the Nation, Pedro Paterno, T.H. Pardo de Tavera, Isabelo de los Reyes, and the Production of Modern Knowledge (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2006), pp. 121–252.

  41. The Philippines kept this representation in all subsequent constitutional moments, until its rights were abolished—well after the collapse of the South American empire—in 1837. Rizal told his friend Blumentritt that his maternal grandfather had in fact sat as a Philippine representative in this metropolitan legislature. See The Rizal–Blumentritt Correspondence, vol. 1, third unnumbered page after p. 268 (Letter of November 8, 1888, from London).

  42. D.G.E. Hall, A History of South-East Asia, 3rd edition (London and New York: St Martin’s Press, 1968), p. 721. For details on these commotions, typically organized by creoles, see Sarkisyanz, Rizal, pp. 76–9.

  43. Luis Camara Dery, “When the World Loved the Filipinos,” Kasaysayan, I:4 (December 2001), p. 57. Foolishly, he also proclaimed himself Emperor of the Philippines. Interestingly, Mojares, Brains, p.412, reports that some of the rebel officers were Mexicans.

  44. His ablest lieutenant towards the end of his career, the future prime minister Antonio Maura, said of him: “Da frío oírlo y espanto leerle” (Listening to him made one shiver, and reading him feel terrified). Frank Fernández, La sangre de Santa Águeda. Angiolillo, Betances y Cánovas (Miami: Ediciones Universal, 1994), p. 4.

  45. Ibid., p. 1.

  46. Schumacher, The Propaganda Movement, pp. 21–2. My italics.

  47. Fernández, La sangre, p. 5.

  48. On Mendizábal and Ortiz, see ibid., p. 134, note 16. More generally on the consequences of the confiscation of Order properties, especially in Andalusia, see Bécarud and Lapouge, Anarchistes, pp. 14–20.

  49. The exception was the Jesuits, expelled from his realms by Carlos III in 1768. A coalition of the monarchs of France, Spain, Portugal, and Naples successfully pressured Clement XIV to suppress them worldwide in 1773. Pius VII brought the Order back to legal life in 1814, but its members had lost a lot of ground. In the Philippines they did not reappear till 1859, and for a long time were the poor relations of their clerical rivals.

  50. Compare the Netherlands East Indies, possession of another old empire in rapid decline. Serious education in Dutch only began there at the start of the twentieth century—after three hundred years of Dutch meddling in the archipelago, and after Spanish rule in the Philippines had collapsed. The great “multinational” East Indies Company which ruled for the first two centuries saw no reason to waste money on schools. The nineteenth-century colonial state was too busy exploiting the colony (to recover financially from the Napoleonic Wars and the huge Diponegoro rebellion of the 1820s) to do more than its predecessor. Training in native languages only began seriously in the 1870s, and concentrated only on Javanese. Besides, in the Netherlands itself, the ruling class was still using Dutch mostly to speak to maids and shopkeepers. Democratization, especially expansion of the suffrage, after 1880 began to put nationalist pressure on colonial policy, such that when a colonial educational system began to appear, the medium finally was Dutch. By the 1920s there was thus a small ilustrado nationalist elite—four decades later than in the Philippines—which did initiate nationalist and socialist agitation. But it was too late. The Japanese onslaught of 1942 put an administrative end to Dutch, and the last Indonesian novel of any signifiance written in Dutch was a product of the 1930s. Of the 70 million population of the colony in 1930, almost completely native, at best 0.5 percent understood the colonial language. But in the long meantime, from East India Company days, a kind of pidgin Malay was in use, not only in interisland commerce, but in the administrative practice of the rulers themselves. (The geographical location of the Indies on the highway of maritime transoceanic commerce compared favorably with the Philippines’ marginal position.) When a vernacular press began to develop, from the 1890s, “Malay” so far outstripped its Dutch, Javanese, and Arabic competitors in the market that it was ready to be inscribed by young nationalists in 1928 as, not pidgin Malay, but the “Indonesian language.” Dutch lingered on till the 1960s as the private language of the ilustrado elite, but no one spoke it in public after 1942.

  51. On Fannelli and his background, see Pernicone, Italian Anarchism, pp. 19–20. Yet another Neapolitan, and an architect and engineer to boot, he had been prominent in revolutionary activities in Lombardy and Rome in 1848–49, and had fought with Garibaldi’s Thousand in Sicily, who brought Bourbon rule in Southern Italy to its knees. Elected to the new national parliament in 1865, he refused to take part in the institution’s deliberations, but used the railway pass that was a perquisite of office to tour the country incessantly, spreading radical propaganda.

  52. Esenwein, Anarchist Ideology, pp. 14–18; Bécarud and Lapouge, Anarchistes, pp. 27–9.

  53. How did a Cuban manage to have so fine a French name? His grandparents on both sides had been “French Haitians,” and had moved to Cuba to escape Toussaint’s revolution. One grandfather (Lafargue) was a small slave-owning planter and the other (Abraham Armagnac) a Jewish merchant. One grandmother was a Haitian mulatta, and the other a Jamaican Caribe. Both Paul and his parents were born in Santiago de Cuba. The family moved back to the grandparents’ native Bordeaux in 1851, escaping this time from Cuban rebellion and Spanish repression. Paul carried a Spanish passport, and was bilingual in French and Spanish.

  54. Bécarud and Lapouge, Anarchistes, pp. 29–34; David Ortiz, Jr, Paper Liberals. Press and Politics in Restoration Spain (Westport, CT: Westwood Press, 2000), p. 58.

  55. According to Bécarud and Lapouge, Anarchistes, p. 36, an earlier such wave had occurred in 1878–80.

  56. Ramón Sempau observed that now “se renovaron prácticas olvidadas” [forgotten practices (i.e. of the Inquisition era) were renewed]. Los victimarios, p. 275. Two famous Spanish novels, published a quarter of a century later under a liberalized regime, afford fine evocations of the undergrounds of Barcelona and Andalusia in this period: Pío Baroja’s Aurora roja (Red Dawn) and Vicente Blasco Ibáñez’s La bodega (The Cellar), both originally published in Madrid in 1905.