so that those who came from the baths might drink the fresh water;
the girls were given wreaths of ylang-ylang and roses to perfume
their unbound hair.
The lunch hour came. The curate, the alferez, the gobernadorcillo,
some captains, and the lieutenant sat at a table with Ibarra. The
mamas allowed no men at the table with the girls.
"Have you learned anything, senor alferez, about the criminal who
attacked Brother Damaso?" said Brother Salvi.
"Of what criminal are you speaking?" asked the alferez, looking at
the father over his glass of wine.
"What? Why, the one who attacked Brother Damaso on the highway day
before yesterday."
"Father Damaso has been attacked?" asked several voices.
"Yes; he is in bed yet. It is thought the maker of the assault is
Elias, the one who threw you into the swamp some time ago, senor
alferez."
The alferez reddened with shame, if it were not from emptying his
glass of wine.
"But I supposed you were informed," the curate went on; "I said to
myself that the alferez of the Municipal Guard----"
The officer bit his lip.
At that moment a woman, pale, thin, miserably dressed, appeared,
like a phantom, in the midst of the feast.
"Give the poor woman something to eat," said the ladies.
She kept on toward the table where the curate was seated. He turned,
recognized her, and the knife fell from his hand.
"Give the woman something to eat," ordered Ibarra.
"The night is dark and the children are gone," murmured the poor
woman. But at sight of the alferez she became frightened and ran,
disappearing among the trees.
"Who is it?" demanded several voices.
"Isn't her name Sisa?" asked Ibarra with interest.
"Your soldiers arrested her," said the lieutenant to the alferez,
with some bitterness; "they brought her all the way across the pueblo
for some story about her sons that nobody could clear up."
"What!" demanded the alferez, turning to the curate. "It is perhaps
the mother of your sacristans?"
The curate nodded assent.
"They have disappeared, and there hasn't been the slightest effort to
find them," said Don Filipo severely, looking at the gobernadorcillo,
who lowered his eyes.
"Bring back the woman," Crisostomo ordered his servants.
"They have disappeared, did you say?" demanded the alferez. "Your
sacristans have disappeared, Father Salvi?"
The curate emptied his glass and made another affirmative sign.
"Ho, ho! father," cried the alferez with a mocking laugh, rejoiced at
the prospect of revenge. "Your reverence loses a few pesos, and my
sergeant is routed out to find them; your two sacristans disappear,
your reverence says nothing; and you also, senor gobernadorcillo,
you also----"
He did not finish, but broke off laughing, and buried his spoon in
the red flesh of a papaw.
The curate began with some confusion:
"I was responsible for the money."
"Excellent reply, reverend pastor of souls!" interrupted the alferez,
his mouth full. "Excellent reply, holy man!"
Ibarra was on the point of interfering, but the priest recovered
himself.
"Do you know, senor alferez," he asked, "what is said about the
disappearance of these children? No? Then ask your soldiers."
"What!" cried the alferez, thus challenged, abandoning his mocking
tone.
"They say that on the night when they disappeared shots were heard
in the pueblo."
"Shots?" repeated the alferez, looking at the faces around him. There
were several signs of assent.
Brother Salvi went on with a sarcastic smile:
"Come! I see that you do not know how to arrest criminals, that you
are unaware of what your soldiers do, but that you are ready to turn
yourself into a preacher and teach others their duty."
"Senores," interrupted Ibarra, seeing the alferez grow pale, "I wish
to know what you think of a project I've formed. I should like to
give the mother into the care of a good physician. I've promised the
father to try to find his children."
The return of the servants without Sisa gave a new turn to the
conversation. The luncheon was finished. While the tea and coffee
were being served the guests separated into groups, the elders to
play cards or chess, while the girls, curious to learn their destiny,
posed questions to the "Wheel of Fortune."
"Come, Senor Ibarra!" cried Captain Basilio, a little gayer than usual;
"we've had a case in court for fifteen years and no judge is able to
solve it; let's see if we cannot end it at chess."
"In a moment, with great pleasure," said Ibarra; "the alferez is
leaving us."
As soon as the officer had gone the men grouped around the two
players. It was to be an interesting game. The elder ladies meanwhile
had surrounded the curate, to talk with him of the things of religion;
but Brother Salvi seemed to judge the time unfitting and made but
vague replies, his rather irritated glance being directed almost
everywhere except toward his questioners.
The chess players began with much solemnity.
"If the game is a tie, the affair is forgotten!" said Ibarra.
In the midst of the play he received a despatch. His eyes shone and he
became pale, but he put the message in his pocket without opening it.
"Check!" he cried. Captain Basilio had no recourse but to hide his
king behind the queen.
"Check!" said Ibarra, threatening with his castle.
Captain Basilio asked a moment to reflect.
"Willingly," said Ibarra; "I, too, should like a moment," and excusing
himself he went toward the group round the "Wheel of Fortune."
Iday had the disc on which were the forty-eight questions, Albino
the book of replies.
"Ask something," they all cried to Ibarra, as he came up. "The one
who has the best answer is to receive a present from the others."
"And who has had the best so far?"
"Maria Clara!" cried Sinang. "We made her ask whether her lover is
constant and true, and the book said----"
But Maria, all blushes, put her hand over Sinang's mouth.
"Give me the 'Wheel' then," said Crisostomo, smiling. And he asked:
"Shall I succeed in my present undertaking?"
"What a stupid question!" pouted Sinang.
The corresponding answer was found in the book. "'Dreams are dreams,'"
read Albino.
Ibarra brought out his telegram and opened it, trembling.
"This time your wheel lies!" he cried. "Read!"
"'Project for school approved.' What does that mean?" they asked.
"This is my present," said he, giving the despatch to Maria Clara. "I'm
to build a school in the pueblo; the school is my offering." And the
young fellow ran back to his game of chess.
After making this present to his fiancee, Ibarra was so happy that
he played without reflection, and, thanks to his many false moves,
the captain re-established himself, and the game was a draw. The two
men shook hands with effusion.
While they were thus making an end of the long and tedious suit, the
sudden appearance of a sergeant and four armed guards, bayonets fixed,
broke rudely in upon the merry-makers.
"Whoever stirs is a dead man!" cried the sergeant.
In spite of this bluster, Ibarra went up to him and asked what
he wanted.
"We want a criminal named Elias, who was your helmsman this morning,"
replied the officer, still threatening.
"A criminal? The helmsman? You must be mistaken."
"No, senor, this Elias is accused of having raised his hand against
a priest. You admit questionable people to your fetes."
Ibarra looked him over from head to foot and replied with great
coldness.
"I am in no way accountable to you for my actions. Every one is
welcome at my fetes." And he turned away.
The sergeant, finding he was making no headway, ordered his men to
search on all sides. They had the helmsman's description on paper.
"Notice that this description answers well for nine-tenths of the
natives," said Don Filipo; "see that you make no mistakes!"
Quiet came back little by little. There were no end of questions.
"So this is the Elias who threw the alferez into the swamp," said Leon.
"He's a tulisane then?" asked Victoria, trembling.
"I think not, for I know that he once fought against the tulisanes."
"He hasn't the face of a criminal," said Sinang.
"No; but his face is very sad," said Maria. "I did not see him smile
all the morning."
The day was ending, and in the last rays of the setting sun
everybody left the wood, passing in silence the tomb of Ibarra's
ancestor. Farther on conversation again became animated, gay, full
of warmth, under these branches little used to merry-making. But the
trees appeared sad, and the swaying bindweed seemed to say: "Adieu,
youth! Adieu, dream of a day!"
XXI.
WITH THE PHILOSOPHER.
The next morning, Juan Crisostomo Ibarra, after visiting his land,
turned his horse toward old Tasio's.
Complete quiet reigned in the old man's garden; scarcely did the
swallows make a sound as they flew round the roof. The old walls of
the house were mossy, and ivy framed the windows. It seemed the abode
of silence.
Ibarra tied his horse, crossed the neat garden, almost on tiptoe, and
entered the open door. He found the old man in his study, surrounded
by his collections of insects and leaves, his maps, manuscript, and
books. He was writing, and so absorbed in his work that he did not
notice the entrance of Ibarra until the young man, loath to disturb
him, was leaving as quietly as he had come.
"What! you were there?" he cried, looking at Crisostomo with a certain
astonishment.
"Don't disturb yourself; I see you are busy----"
"I was writing a little, but it is not at all pressing. Can I be of
service to you?"
"Of great service," said Ibarra, approaching; "but--you are deciphering
hieroglyphics!" he exclaimed in surprise, catching sight of the old
man's work.
"No, I'm writing in hieroglyphics."
"Writing in hieroglyphics? And why?" demanded the young man, doubting
his senses.
"So that no one can read me."
Ibarra looked at him attentively, wondering if he were not a little
mad after all.
"And why do you write if you do not wish to be read?"
"I write not for this generation, but for future ages. If the men
of to-day could read my books, they would burn them; the generation
that deciphers these characters will understand, and will say: 'Our
ancestors did not all sleep.' But you have something to ask of me,
and we are talking of other things."
Ibarra drew out some papers.
"I know," he said, "that my father greatly valued your advice, and
I have come to ask it for myself."
And he briefly explained his project for the school, unrolling before
the stupefied philosopher plans sent from Manila. "Whom shall I consult
first, in the pueblo, whose support will avail me most? You know them
all, I am almost a stranger."
Old Tasio examined with tearful eyes the drawings before him.
"You are going to realize my dream," he said, greatly moved; "the
dream of a poor fool. And now the first advice I give you is never
to ask advice of me."
Ibarra looked at him in surprise.
"Because, if you do," he continued with bitter irony, "all sensible
people will take you for a fool, too. For all sensible people think
those who differ with them fools; they think me one, and I am grateful
for it, because the day they see in me a reasonable being woe is
me! That day I shall lose the little liberty I now enjoy at the
expense of my reputation. The gobernadorcillo passes with them for
a wise man because having learned nothing but to serve chocolate and
to suffer the caprices of Brother Damaso, he is now rich and has the
right to trouble the life of his fellow-citizens. 'There is a man of
talent!' says the crowd. 'He has sprung from nothing to greatness.' But
perhaps I am really the fool and they are the wise men. Who can say?"
And the old man shook his head as though to dismiss an unwelcome
thought.
"The second thing I advise is to consult the curate, the
gobernadorcillo, all the people of position in the pueblo. They will
give you bad advice, unintelligible, useless. But to ask advice is
not to follow it. All you need is to make it understood that you are
working in accordance with their ideas."
Ibarra reflected, then replied:
"No doubt your counsel is good, but it is very hard to take. May I
not offer my own ideas to the light of day? Cannot the good make its
way anywhere? Has truth need of the dross of error?"
"No one likes the naked truth," replied the old man. "It is good in
theory, easy in the ideal world of which youth dreams. You say you
are a stranger to your country; I believe it. The day that you arrived
here, you began by wounding the self-esteem of a priest. God grant this
seemingly small thing has not decided your future. If it has, all your
efforts will break against the convent walls, without disturbing the
monk, swaying his girdle, or making his robe tremble. The alcalde,
under one pretext or another, will deny you to-morrow what he grants
you to-day; not a mother will let her child go to your school, and
the result of all your efforts will be simply negative."
"I cannot help feeling your fears exaggerated," said Ibarra. "In spite
of all you say, I cannot believe in this power; but even admitting it
to be so great, the most intelligent of the people would be on my side,
and also the Government, which is animated by the best intentions,
and wishes the veritable good of the Philippines."
"The Government! the Government!" murmured the philosopher,
raising his eyes. "However great its desire to better the country,
however generous may have been the spirit of the Catholic kings,
the Government sees, hears, judges nothing more than the curate or
the provincial gives it to see, hear, or judge. The Government is
convinced that its tranquillity comes through the monks; that if
it is upheld, it is because they uphold it; that if it live, is it
because they consent to let it, and that the day when they fail it,
it will fall like a manikin that has lost its base. The monks hold
the Government in hand by threatening a revolt of the people they
control; the people, by displaying the power of the Government. So
long as the Government has not an understanding with the country,
it will not free itself from this tutelage. The Government looks to
no vigorous future; it's an arm, the head is the convent. Through
its inertia, it allows itself to be dragged from abyss to abyss; its
existence is no more than a shadow. Compare our system of government
with the systems of countries you have visited----"
"Oh!" interrupted Ibarra, "that is going far. Let us be satisfied that,
thanks to religion and the humanity of our rulers, our people do not
complain, do not suffer like those of other countries."
"The people do not complain because they have no voice; if they
don't revolt, it is because they are lethargic; if you say they do
not suffer, it is because you have not seen their heart's blood. But
the day will come when you will see and hear. Then woe to those who
base their strength on ignorance and fanaticism; woe to those who
govern through falsehood, and work in the night, thinking that all
sleep! When the sun's light shows the sham of all these phantoms,
there will be a frightful reaction; all this strength conserved for
centuries, all this poison distilled drop by drop, all these sighs
strangled, will find the light and the air. Who pay these accounts
which the people from time to time present, and which History preserves
for us in its bloody pages?"
"God will never permit such a day to come!" replied Ibarra, impressed
in spite of himself. "The Filipinos are religious, and they love
Spain. There are abuses, yes, but Spain is preparing reforms to
correct them; her projects are now ripening."
"I know; but the reforms which come from the head are annulled
lower down, thanks to the greedy desire of officials to enrich
themselves in a short time, and to the ignorance of the people, who
accept everything. Abuses are not to be corrected by royal decrees,
not where the liberty of speech, which permits the denunciation of
petty tyrants, does not exist. Projects remain projects; abuses,
abuses. Moreover, if by chance some one coming to occupy an office
begins to show high and generous ideas, immediately he hears on all
sides--while to his back he is held a fool: 'Your Excellency does
not know the country, Your Excellency does not know the character of
the Indians, Your Excellency will ruin them, Your Excellency will do
well to consult this one and that one,' and so forth, and so on. And
as in truth His Excellency does not know the country, which hitherto
he had supposed to be in America, and since, like all men, he has his
faults and weaknesses, he allows himself to be convinced. Don't ask
for miracles; don't ask that he who comes here a stranger to make his
fortune should interest himself in the welfare of the country. What
does it mean to him, the gratitude or the execration of a people he
does not know, among whom he has neither attachments nor hopes? To
make glory sweet to us, its plaudits must resound in the ears of
those we love, in the atmosphere of our home, of the country that
is to preserve our ashes; we wish this glory seated on our tomb,
to warm a little with its rays the cold of death, to keep us from
being reduced to nothingness quite. But we wander from the question."
"It is true I did not come to argue this point; I came to ask advice,
and you tell me to bow before grotesque idols."
"Yes, and I repeat it; you must either lower your head or lose it."
"'Lower my head or lose it!'" repeated Ibarra, thoughtful. "The dilemma
is hard. Is it impossible to reconcile love of my country and love of
Spain? Must one abase himself to be a good Christian; prostitute his
conscience to achieve a good work? I love my country; I love Spain;
I am a Catholic, and keep pure the faith of my fathers; but I see in
all this no reason for delivering myself into the hands of my enemies."
"But the field where you would sow is in the keeping of your
enemies. You must begin by kissing the hand which----"
Ibarra did not let him finish.
"Kiss their hands! You forget that among them are those who killed my
father and tore his body from the grave; but I, his son, do not forget,
and if I do not avenge, it is because of my allegiance to religion!"
The old philosopher lowered his eyes.
"Senor Ibarra," he said slowly, "if you are going to keep the
remembrance of these things, things I cannot counsel you to forget,
abandon this enterprise and find some other means of benefiting your
compatriots. This work demands another man."
Ibarra saw the force of these words, but he could not give up his
project. The remembrance of Maria Clara was in his heart; he must
make good his offering to her.
"If I go on, does your experience suggest nothing but this hard
road?" he asked in a low voice.
Old Tasio took his arm and led him to the window. A fresh breeze was
blowing, courier of the north wind. Below lay the garden.
"Why must we do as does that slender stalk, charged with buds and
blossoms?" said the philosopher, pointing out a superb rose-tree. "The
wind makes it tremble, and it bends, as if to hide its precious
charge. If the stalk stood rigid, it would break, the wind would
scatter the flowers, and the buds would die without opening. The
gust of wind passed, the stalk rises again, proudly wearing her
treasure. Who accuses her for having bowed to necessity? To lower the
head when a ball whistles is not cowardice. What is reprehensible is
defying the shot, to fall and rise no more."
"And will this sacrifice bear the fruit I seek? Will they have faith
in me? Can the priest forget his own offence? Will they sincerely
aid me to spread that instruction which is sure to dispute with the
convents the wealth of the country? Might they not feign friendship,
simulate protection, and, underneath, wound my enterprise in the heel,
that it fall more promptly than if attacked face to face? Admitting
your views, one might expect anything."
The old man reflected, then he said:
"If this happens, if the enterprise fails, you will have the
consolation of having done what you could. Something will have been
gained. Your example will embolden others, who fear only to commence."
Ibarra weighed these reasonings, examined the situation, and saw that
with all his pessimism the old man was right.
"I believe you," he said, grasping his hand. "It was not in vain
that I came to you for counsel. I will go straight to the curate,
who, after all, may be a fair-minded man. They are not all like the
persecutor of my father. I go with faith in God and man."
He took leave of Tasio, mounted, and rode away, followed by the regard
of the pessimistic old philosopher, who stood muttering to himself:
"We shall see, we shall see how the fates unroll the drama begun in
the cemetery!"
This time the wise Tasio was wrong; the drama had begun long before.
XXII.
THE MEETING AT THE TOWN HALL.
It was a room of twelve or fifteen by eight or ten yards. The
whitewashed walls were covered with charcoal drawings, more or less
ugly, more or less decent. In the corner were a dozen old shot-guns
and some rusty swords, the arms of the cuadrilleros.
At one end, draped with soiled red curtains, was a portrait of His
Majesty the King, and on the platform underneath an old fauteuil
opened its worn arms; before this was a great table, daubed with ink,
carved and cut with inscriptions and monograms, like the tables of
a German students' inn. Lame chairs and tottering benches completed
the furniture.
In this hall meetings were held, courts sat, tortures were
inflicted. At the moment the authorities of the pueblo and its vicinity
were met there. The party of the old did not mingle with the party
of the young; the two represented the Conservatives and Liberals.
"My friends," Don Filipo, the chief of the Liberals, was saying to
a little group, "we shall vanquish the old men this time; I'm going
to present their plan myself, with exaggerations, you may imagine."
"What are you saying?" demanded his surprised auditors.
"Listen," said Don Filipo. "This morning I ran across old Tasio. He
said to me: 'Your enemies are more opposed to your person than to your
ideas. Is there something you don't want to have go through? Propose it
yourself. If it's as desirable as a mitre, they will reject it. Then
let the most modest young fellow among you present what you really
want. To humiliate you, your enemies will help to carry it.' Hush! Keep
the secret."
The gobernadorcillo had come in. Conversation ceased, all took places,
and silence reigned.
The captain, as the gobernadorcillo is called, sat down in the chair
under the king's portrait. His look was harried. He coughed, passed
his hand over his cranium, coughed again, and at length began in a
failing voice:
"Senores, I've taken the risk of convening you all--hem, hem!--because
we are to celebrate, the twelfth of this month, the feast of our
patron, San Diego--hem, hem!"
At this point of his discourse a cough, dry and regular, reduced him
to silence.
Then from among the elders arose Captain Basilio:
"Will your honors permit me," said he, "to speak a word under these
interesting circumstances? I speak first, though many of those present
have more right than I, but the things I have to say are of such
importance that they should neither be left aside nor said last,
and for that reason I wish to speak first, to give them the place
they merit. Your honors will, then, permit me to speak first in this
assembly, where I see very distinguished people, like the senor, the
present gobernadorcillo; his predecessor, my distinguished friend, Don
Valentine; his other predecessor, Don Julio; our renowned captain of
the cuadrilleros, Don Melchior, and so many others, whom, for brevity,
I will not mention, and whom you see here present. I entreat your
honors to give me the floor before any one else speaks. Am I happy
enough to have the assembly accede to my humble request?" And the
speaker bowed respectfully, half smiling.
"You may speak, we shall hear you with pleasure!" cried his flattering
friends, who held him a great orator. The old men hemmed with
satisfaction and rubbed their hands.
Captain Basilio wiped the sweat from his brow and continued: