Yasotarō Mōri
▲ Sensing Danger Close at Hand
The particular reason Rizal made a point of this clause was that he always had a sense that some unforeseen calamity might befall him. Indeed, when he packed up part of his library and sent it to Basa in preparation for his departure to Hong Kong, he wrote: “If any misfortune should befall me, please sell these books and let the proceeds go toward paying off my debts — they are reckoned to be worth six hundred dollars.” In other words, he could feel the scheming hand of the wicked friars and corrupt officials, dancing to the tune of the Philippine archbishop, closing in around him.
The reason for his financial distress at the time was partly that a certain organization back home, which was supposed to send him a monthly remittance, had failed to do so, but it was also because he had just begun printing the companion volume to Noli Me Tángere, and had emptied his purse to the last coin on the cost of publication. With the printing only half finished, his funds ran out, and there were even moments when he thought of abandoning the project altogether. But he managed to weather that crisis, and publication was finally achieved (September 1891). He dedicated the book to Dr. Burgos and two other men. Dr. Burgos and the other two were the central figures in the tragedy Rizal had first heard of just before leaving for his studies in Manila — an event that had driven his brother Paciano to fury, and had branded the tyranny of Spanish officials and friars into the mind of the young Rizal. The dedication reads as follows:
To the memory of the priests Mariano Gómez (85 years old), José Burgos (30 years old), and Jacinto Zamora (35 years old), executed on the field of Bagumbayan on the 28th of February, 1872 — I have the right to dedicate this book to you, victims of the very evil that I now go forth to fight. Trusting that Spain will one day restore your good names and make amends for the wrong of your execution, we lay this book, however belated, as a wreath of withered leaves upon your unmarked graves. Let it be known that whosoever, without solid proof, would sully your memory stains his own hands with your blood.
This sequel, El Filibusterismo (sometimes translated as “The Reign of Greed,” or also called “The Revolutionist”), is utterly different from its predecessor in every respect. The earlier novel had a certain smoothness running through it from cover to cover — one could sense, if faintly, an air of gentle spring breezes behind its pages — but the sequel carries a harsh, wintry feeling that allows for no compromise whatsoever. The earlier novel was, on the whole, favorably disposed toward the Spanish government, attacking only its corrupt officials and wicked friars, but the sequel is a declaration of no confidence in the Spanish government itself. Four years separate the two novels, and in those four years he had been taught, to the marrow, the harsh pain of reality. The sequel may be regarded as a public challenge Rizal hurled at Spain.
In this book, the people of Calamba, Rizal’s own family, and the officials and friars who persecuted them all appear under other names. The plot has it that Ibarra, the hero of the earlier novel who was believed to have died, is in fact alive, and, under the assumed name of Simoun, has become a jeweler and drawn close to the Spanish government. He affects unwavering loyalty to Spain in order to win the authorities’ trust, all the while secretly plotting the overthrow of the government and armed revolution, scheming to carry out, in a single stroke, the revenge of many years. It is thought that Rizal may have drawn some inspiration here from The Count of Monte Cristo, a novel he had been fond of reading some years before. At the very last moment, the scheme fails, tragically; Simoun goes into hiding, on his own, at a comrade’s house, and there poisons himself to death. Just before he breathes his last, he asks for a priest he has long trusted to come to him, and makes his confession (this priest is said to have been modeled on Father López, a priest Rizal had revered in his hometown since boyhood).
▲ Rizal’s Views on Revolution
This is the final chapter, and also the most famous. Here, speaking through the mouth of the priest, we can glimpse Rizal’s own views on revolution. In response to Simoun’s conspiracy, the priest says:
“To one who dares to bring about a result that would destroy his own country, the honor of saving that country is not given. Hatred begets devils. Sin makes sinners. Only love can work miracles. Only virtue can save a nation. If the Philippines is to be freed from tyranny, it must never be achieved through wickedness and crime — to obtain a clear spring, the rock must first be broken.”
Rizal remained, to the last, opposed to armed revolution. What he sought, even if his efforts ended as an unsung, unrewarded labor performed in the shadows, was to break the rock of tyranny through the power of justice and thereby win a clear spring at which all the people could live at peace and in contentment. It was, then, only natural that he found himself at odds with the followers of Andrés Bonifacio, the vanguard of the Philippine revolution, who at the time were working hard to install him as the leader of an armed uprising.
Another thing that made this final chapter famous is a passage in which, again through the priest’s voice, an appeal is made to the youth of the Philippines. It exhorts young Filipinos to rise, and from it we can see just how much Rizal hoped that his will would be carried forward by the Philippines of tomorrow. The priest sits quietly beside Simoun’s body and speaks to himself:
“Where is the young Philippines that will devote its years of vigor, its hopes for the future, and its passion for them, to the cause of the fatherland? Where are the young men willing to shed their blood to wash away so much shame, crime, and tyranny? The sacrifice that is accepted must be as pure as white snow. The vitality that has left our bodies, the purity of the ideals shattered in our hearts, the flame of passion lost from our spirits — where is the young Philippines that will embody these things once more?”
The sequel earned even greater acclaim from every quarter than its predecessor had. The islanders sent up cries of jubilant gratitude to Rizal, who fought so bravely against tyranny on their behalf, and in proportion to that, the Spanish officials and friars in the Philippines came to regard him as a mortal enemy, resolved that they would not rest until he was destroyed. The sequel was, for the people of the Philippine islands, a profound warning bell and a lesson — and, to the authorities, a declaration of war.
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