without any one's daring to reply and be paid for it into the
bargain! Look, look at Father Damaso! See how fat he gets with his
shouting and pounding!"
In truth, Father Damaso was that moment passing the children's booth in
the gait peculiar to men of his size. As he entered the other booth,
he was half smiling, but so maliciously that at sight of it Ibarra,
who was talking, lost the thread of his speech.
The guests were astonished to see the father, but every one except
Ibarra received him with signs of pleasure. They were at the dessert,
and the champagne was sparkling in the cups.
Father Damaso's smile became nervous when he saw Maria Clara sitting
next Crisostomo, but, taking a chair beside the alcalde, he said in
the midst of a significant silence:
"You were talking of something, senores; continue!"
"We had come to the toasts," said the alcalde. "Senor Ibarra was
mentioning those who had aided him in his philanthropic enterprise,
and he was speaking of the architect when your reverence----"
"Ah, well! I know nothing about architecture," interrupted Father
Damaso, "but I scorn architects and the simpletons who make use
of them."
"Nevertheless," said the alcalde, as Ibarra was silent, "when certain
buildings are in question, like a school, for example, an expert
is needed----"
"An expert!" cried the father, with sarcasm. "One needs be more
stupid than the Indians, who build their own houses, not to know how
to raise four walls and put a roof on them. Nothing else is needed
for a school!"
Every one looked at Ibarra, but, though he grew a little pale, he
pursued his conversation with Maria Clara.
"But does your reverence consider----"
"See here!" continued the Franciscan, again cutting off the
alcalde. "See how one of our lay brothers, the most stupid one we
have, built a hospital. He paid the workmen eight cuartos a day,
and got them from other pueblos, too. Not much like these young
feather-brains who ruin workmen, paying them three or four reales!"
"Does your reverence say he paid but eight cuartos? Impossible!" said
the alcalde, hoping to change the course of the conversation.
"Yes, senor, and so should those do who pride themselves upon being
good Spaniards. Since the opening of the Suez Canal, corruption has
reached even here! When the Cape had to be doubled, not so many ruined
men came here, and fewer went abroad to ruin themselves!"
"But Father Damaso----"
"You know the Indian; as soon as he has learned anything, he takes
a title. All these beardless youths who go to Europe----"
"But, your reverence, listen----" began the alcalde, alarmed by the
harshness of these words.
"Finish as they merit," continued the priest. "The hand of God is in
it; he is blind who does not see that. Already even the fathers of
these reptiles receive their chastisement; they die in prison! Ah----"
He did not finish. Ibarra, livid, had been watching him. At these words
he rose, gave one bound, and struck out with his strong hand. The monk,
stunned by the blow, fell backward.
Surprised and terrified, not one of the spectators moved.
"Let no one come near!" said the young man in a terrible voice,
drawing his slender blade, and holding the neck of the priest with
his foot. "Let no one come, unless he wishes to die."
Ibarra was beside himself, his whole body trembled, his threatening
eyes were big with rage. Father Damaso, regaining his senses, made
an effort to rise, but Crisostomo, grasping his neck, shook him till
he had brought him to his knees.
"Senor de Ibarra! Senor de Ibarra!" stammered one and another. But
nobody, not even the alferez, risked a movement. They saw the knife
glitter; they calculated Crisostomo's strength, unleashed by anger;
they were paralyzed.
"All you here, you have said nothing. Now it rests with me. I avoided
him; God brings him to me. Let God judge!"
Ibarra breathed with effort, but his arm of iron kept harsh hold of
the Franciscan, who struggled in vain to free himself.
"My heart beats true, my hand is firm----" And he looked about him.
"I ask you first, is there among you any one who has not loved his
father, who has not loved his father's memory; any one born in shame
and abasement? See, hear this silence! Priest of a God of peace, thy
mouth full of sanctity and religion, thy heart of corruption! Thou
canst not know what it is to be a father; thou shouldst have thought
of thy own! See, in all this crowd that you scorn there is not one
like you! You are judged!"
The guests, believing he was going to strike, made their first
movement.
"Do not come near us!" he cried again in the same threatening
voice. "What? You fear I shall stain my hand in impure blood? Did I not
tell you that my heart beats true? Away from us, and listen, priests,
believing yourselves different from other men, giving yourselves other
rights! My father was an honorable man. Ask the country which venerates
his memory. My father was a good citizen, who sacrificed himself for
me and for his country's good. His house was open, his table set for
the stranger or the exile who should turn to him! He was a Christian;
always doing good, never pressing the weak, nor forcing tears from
the wretched. As to this man, he opened his door to him, made him
sit down at his table, and called him friend. And how did the man
respond? He falsely accused him; he pursued him; he armed ignorance
against him! Confiding in the sanctity of his office, he outraged his
tomb, dishonored his memory; his hate troubled even the rest of the
dead. And not yet satisfied, he now pursues the son. I fled from him,
avoided his presence. You heard him this morning profane the chair,
point me out to the people's fanaticism; but I said nothing. Now,
he comes here to seek a quarrel; I suffer in silence, until he again
insults a memory sacred to all sons.
"You who are here, priests, magistrates, have you seen your old
father give himself for you, part from you for your good, die of
grief in a prison, looking for your embrace, looking for consolation
from any one who would bring it, sick, alone; while you in a foreign
land? Then have you heard his name dishonored, found his tomb empty
when you went there to pray? No? You are silent; then you condemn him!"
He raised his arm. But a girl, rapid as light, threw herself between
him and the priest, and with her fragile hands held the avenging
arm. It was Maria Clara. Ibarra looked at her with eyes like a
madman's. Then, little by little, his tense fingers relaxed; he let
fall the knife, and, covering his face with his hands, he fled.
XXIX.
OPINIONS.
The noise of the affair spread rapidly. At first no one believed it,
but when there was no longer room for doubt, each made his comments,
according to the degree of his moral elevation.
"Father Damaso is dead," said some. "When he was carried away, his
face was congested with blood, and he no longer breathed."
"May he rest in peace, but he has only paid his debt!" said a young
stranger.
"Why do you say that?"
"One of us students who came from Manila for the fete left the church
when the sermon in Tagalo began, saying it was Greek to him. Father
Damaso sent for him afterward, and they came to blows."
"Are we returning to the times of Nero?" asked another student.
"You mistake," replied the first. "Nero was an artist, and Father
Damaso is a jolly poor preacher!"
The men of more years talked otherwise.
"To say which was wrong and which right is not easy," said the
gobernadorcillo, "and yet, if Senor Ibarra had been more moderate----"
"You probably mean, if Father Damaso had shown half the moderation of
Senor Ibarra," interrupted Don Filipo. "The pity is that the roles
were interchanged: the youth conducted himself like an old man,
and the old man like a youth."
"And you say nobody but the daughter of Captain Tiago came between
them? Not a monk, nor the alcalde?" asked Captain Martin. "I wouldn't
like to be in the young man's shoes. None of those who were afraid
of him will ever forgive him. Hah, that's the worst of it!"
"You think so?" demanded Captain Basilio, with interest.
"I hope," said Don Filipo, exchanging glances with Captain Basilio,
"that the pueblo isn't going to desert him. His friends at least----"
"But, senores," interrupted the gobernadorcillo, "what can we
do? What can the pueblo? Whatever happens, the monks are always in
the right----"
"They are always in the right, because we always say they're in the
right. Let us say we are in the right for once, and then we shall
have something to talk about!"
The gobernadorcillo shook his head.
"Ah, the young blood!" he said. "You don't seem to know what country
you live in; you don't know your compatriots. The monks are rich;
they are united; we are poor and divided. Try to defend him and you
will see how you are left to compromise yourself alone!"
"Yes," cried Don Filipo bitterly, "and it will be so as long as fear
and prudence are supposed to be synonymous. Each thinks of himself,
nobody of any one else; that is why we are weak!"
"Very well! Think of others and see how soon the others will let
you hang!"
"I've had enough of it!" cried the exasperated lieutenant. "I shall
give my resignation to the alcalde to-day."
The women had still other thoughts.
"Aye!" said one of them. "Young people are always the same. If his
good mother were living, what would she say? When I think that my son,
who is a young hothead, too, might have done the same thing----"
"I'm not with you," said another woman. "I should have nothing against
my two sons if they did as Don Crisostomo."
"What are you saying, Capitana Maria?" cried the first woman, clasping
her hands.
"I'm a poor stupid," said a third, the Capitana Tinay, "but I know
what I'm going to do. I'm going to tell my son not to study any
more. They say men of learning all die on the gallows. Holy Mary,
and my son wants to go to Europe!"
"If I were rich as you, my children should travel," said the Capitana
Maria. "Our sons ought to aspire to be more than their fathers. I
have not long to live, and we shall meet again in the other world."
"Your ideas, Capitana Maria, are little Christian," said Sister
Rufa severely. "Make yourself a sister of the Sacred Rosary, or of
St. Francis."
"Sister Rufa, when I'm a worthy sister of men, I will think about
being a sister of the saints," said the capitana, smiling.
Under the booth where the children had their feast the father of the
one who was to be a doctor was talking.
"What troubles me most," said he, "is that the school will not be
finished; my son will not be a doctor, but a carter."
"Who said there wouldn't be a school?"
"I say so. The White Fathers have called Don Crisostomo
plibastiero. There won't be any school."
The peasants questioned each other's faces. The word was new to them.
"And is that a bad name?" one at last ventured to ask.
"It's the worst one Christian can give another."
"Worse than tarantado and saragate?"
"If it weren't, it wouldn't amount to much."
"Come now. It can't be worse than indio, as the alferez says."
He whose son was to be a carter looked gloomy. The other shook his
head and reflected.
"Then is it as bad as betalapora, that the old woman of the alferez
says?"
"You remember the word ispichoso (suspect), which had only to be said
of a man to have the guards lead him off to prison? Well, plibastiero
is worse yet; if any one calls you plibastiero, you can confess and
pay your debts, for there's nothing else left to do but get yourself
hanged. That's what the telegrapher and the sub-director say, and
you know whether the telegrapher and the sub-director ought to know:
one talks with iron wires, and the other knows Spanish, and handles
nothing but the pen."
The last hope fled.
XXX.
THE FIRST CLOUD.
The home of Captain Tiago was naturally not less disturbed than the
minds of the crowd. Maria Clara refused to be comforted by her aunt
and her foster-sister. Her father had forbidden her to speak to
Crisostomo until the ban of excommunication should be raised.
In the midst of his preparations for receiving the governor-general
Captain Tiago was summoned to the convent.
"Don't cry, my child," said Aunt Isabel, as she polished the mirrors
with a chamois skin, "the ban will be raised. They will write to the
holy father. We will make a big offering. Father Damaso only fainted;
he isn't dead!"
"Don't cry," whispered Andeng; "I will arrange to meet Crisostomo."
At last Captain Tiago came back. They scanned his face for answers to
many questions; but the face of Captain Tiago spoke discouragement. The
poor man passed his hand across his brow and seemed unable to frame
a word.
"Well, Santiago?" demanded the anxious aunt.
He wiped away a tear and replied by a sigh.
"Speak, for heaven's sake! What is it?"
"What I all the time feared," he said at last, conquering his
tears. "Everything is lost! Father Damaso orders me to break the
promise of marriage. They all say the same thing, even Father Sibyla. I
must shut the doors of my house to him, and--I owe him more than fifty
thousand pesos! I told the fathers so, but they wouldn't take it into
account. 'Which would you rather lose,' they said, 'fifty thousand
pesos or your soul?' Ah, St. Anthony, if I had known, if I had known!"
Maria Clara was sobbing.
"Don't cry, my child," he said, turning to her; "you aren't like your
mother; she never cried. Father Damaso told me that a young friend
of his is coming from Spain; he intends him for your fiance----"
Maria Clara stopped her ears.
"But, Santiago, are you mad?" cried Aunt Isabel. "Speak to her of
another fiance now? Do you think your daughter changes them as she
does her gloves?"
"I have thought about it, Isabel; but what would you have me do? They
threaten me, too, with excommunication."
"And you do nothing but distress your daughter! Aren't you the friend
of the archbishop? Why don't you write to him?"
"The archbishop is a monk, too. He will do only what the monks say. But
don't cry, Maria; the governor-general is coming. He will want to
see you, and your eyes will be red. Alas, I thought I was going to
have such a good afternoon! Without this misfortune I should be the
happiest of men, with everybody envying me! Be calm, my child, I am
more unhappy than you, and I don't cry. You may find a better fiance;
but as for me, I lose fifty thousand pesos! Ah, Virgin of Antipolo,
if only I have luck tonight!"
Salvos, the sound of wheels and of horses galloping, the band
playing the Royal March, announced the arrival of His Excellency the
governor-general of the Philippine Islands. Maria Clara ran to hide
in her chamber. Poor girl! Her heart was at the mercy of rude hands
that had no sense of its delicate fibres.
While the house was filling with people, while heavy footsteps,
words of command, and the hurling of sabres and spurs resounded all
about, the poor child, heart-broken, was half-lying, half-kneeling
before that picture of the Virgin where Delaroche represents her in a
grievous solitude, as though he had surprised her returning from the
sepulchre of her son. Maria Clara did not think of the grief of this
mother; she thought only of her own. Her head bent on her breast,
her hands pressed against the floor, she seemed a lily broken by
the storm. A future for years caressed in dreams, illusions born in
childhood, fostered in youth, grown a part of her being, they thought
to shatter all these with a word, to drive it all out of her mind
and heart. A devout Catholic, a loving daughter, the excommunication
terrified her. Not so much her father's commands as her desire for
his peace of mind demanded from her the sacrifice of her love. And
in this moment she felt for the first time the full strength of her
affection for Crisostomo. The peaceful river glides over its sandy bed
under the nodding flowers along its banks; the wind scarcely ridges
its current; it seems to sleep; but farther down the banks close in,
rough rocks choke the channel, a heap of knotty trunks forms a dyke;
then the river roars, revolts, its waters whirl, and shake their
plumes of spray, and, raging, beat the rocks and rush on madly. So
this tranquil love was now transformed and the tempests were let loose.
She would have prayed; but who can pray without hope? "O God!" her
heart complained. "Why refuse a man the love of others? Thou givest
him the sunshine and the air; thou dost not hide from him the sight
of heaven. Why take away that love without which he cannot live?"
The poor child, who had never known a mother of her own, had brought
her grief to that pure heart which knew only filial and maternal
love, to that divine image of womanhood of whose tenderness we dream,
whom we call Mary.
"Mother, mother!" she sobbed.
Aunt Isabel came to find her; her friends were there, and the
governor-general had asked for her.
"Dear aunt, tell them I am ill!" she begged in terror. "They will
want me to play and sing!"
"Your father has promised. Would you make your father break his word?"
Maria Clara rose, looked at her aunt, threw out her beautiful arms with
a sob, then stood still till she was outwardly calm, and went to obey.
XXXI.
HIS EXCELLENCY.
"I want to talk with that young man," said the general to one of his
aids; "he rouses all my interest."
"He has been sent for, my general; but there is here another young
man of Manila who insists upon seeing you. We told him you have not
the time; that you did not come to give audiences. He replied that
Your Excellency has always the time to do justice."
The general, perplexed, turned to the alcalde.
"If I am not mistaken," said the alcalde, with an inclination of the
head, "it is a student who this morning had trouble with Father Damaso
about the sermon."
"Another still? Has this monk started out to put the province to
revolt, or does he think he commands here? Admit the young man!" And
the governor got up and walked nervously back and forth.
In the ante-chamber some Spanish officers and all the functionaries of
the pueblo were talking in groups. All the monks, too, except Father
Damaso, had come to pay their respects to the governor.
"His Excellency begs your reverences to attend a moment," said the
aide-de-camp. "Enter, young man!"
The young Manilian who confounded the Tagalo with the Greek entered,
trembling.
Every one was greatly astonished. His Excellency must be much annoyed
to make the monks wait this way. Said Brother Sibyla:
"I have nothing to say to him, and I'm wasting my time here."
"I also," said an Augustin. "Shall we go?"
"Would it not be better to find out what he thinks?" asked Brother
Salvi. "We should avoid a scandal, and we could remind him--of his
duty----"
"Your reverences may enter," said the aid, conducting back the young
man, who came out radiant.
The fathers went in and saluted the governor.
"Who among your reverences is the Brother Damaso?" demanded His
Excellency at once, without asking them to be seated or inquiring for
their health, and without any of those complimentary phrases which
form the repertory of dignitaries.
"Senor, Father Damaso is not with us," replied Father Sibyla, in a
tone almost as dry.
"Your Excellency's servant is ill," added the humble Brother Salvi. "We
come, after saluting Your Excellency and inquiring for his health,
to speak in the name of Your Excellency's respectful servant, who
has had the misfortune----"
"Oh!" interrupted the captain-general, with a nervous smile, while he
twirled a chair on one leg. "If all the servants of my Excellency were
like the Father Damaso, I should prefer to serve my Excellency myself!"
Their reverences did not seem to know what to reply.
"Won't your reverences sit down?" added the governor in more
conventional tone.
Captain Tiago, in evening dress and walking on tiptoe, came in,
leading by the hand Maria Clara, hesitating, timid. Overcoming her
agitation, she made her salute, at once ceremonial and graceful.
"This signorita is your daughter!" exclaimed the surprised
governor. "Happy the fathers whose daughters are like you,
signorita. They have told me about you, and I wish to thank you in the
name of His Majesty the King, who loves the peace and tranquillity
of his subjects, and in my own name, in that of a father who has
daughters. If there is anything you would wish, signorita----"
"Senor!" protested Maria, trembling.
"The Senor Don Juan Crisostomo Ibarra awaits Your Excellency's orders,"
announced the ringing voice of the aide-de-camp.
"Permit me, signorita, to see you again before I leave the pueblo. I
have yet things to say to you. Senor acalde, Your Highness will
accompany me on the walk I wish to take after the private conference
I shall have with the Senor Ibarra."
"Your Excellency," said Father Salvi humbly, "will permit us to inform
him that the Senor Ibarra is excommunicated----"
The general broke in.
"I am happy," he said, "in being troubled about nothing but the state
of Father Damaso. I sincerely desire his complete recovery, for,
at his age, a voyage to Spain in search of health would be somewhat
disagreeable. But all depends upon him. Meanwhile, God preserve the
health of your reverences!"
All retired.
"In his own case also everything depends upon him," murmured Brother
Salvi as he went out.
"We shall see who makes the earliest voyage to Spain!" added another
Franciscan.
"I shall go immediately," said Father Sibyla, in vexation.
"We, too," grumbled the Augustins.
Both parties bore it ill that for the fault of a Franciscan His
Excellency should have received them so coldly.
In the ante-chamber they encountered Ibarra, who a few hours before
had been their host. There was no exchange of greetings, but there
were eloquent looks. The alcalde, on the contrary, gave Ibarra his
hand. On the threshold Crisostomo met Maria coming out. Looks spoke
again, but very differently this time.
Though this encounter with the monks had seemed to him of bad augury,
Ibarra presented himself in the utmost calm. He bowed profoundly. The
captain-general came forward.
"It gives me the greatest satisfaction, Senor Ibarra, to take you
by the hand. I hope for your entire confidence." And he examined the
young man with evident satisfaction.
"Senor, so much kindness----"
"Your surprise shows that you did not expect a friendly reception;
that was to doubt my fairness."
"A friendly reception, senor, for an insignificant subject of His
Majesty, like myself, is not fairness, but favor."
"Well, well!" said the general, sitting down and motioning Crisostomo
to a seat. "Let us have a moment of open hearts. I am much gratified
by what you are doing, and have proposed you to the Government of
His Majesty for a decoration in recompense for your project of the
school. Had you invited me, I should have found it a pleasure to be
here for the ceremony. Perhaps I should have been able to save you an
annoyance. But as to what happened between you and Father Damaso, have
neither fear nor regrets. Not a hair of your head shall be harmed so
long as I govern the islands; and in regard to the excommunication,
I will talk with the archbishop. We must conform ourselves to our
circumstances. We cannot laugh at it here, as we might in Europe. But
be more prudent in the future. You have weighted yourself with the
religious orders, who, from their office and their wealth, must
be respected. I protect you, because I like a good son. By heaven,
I don't know what I should have done in your place!"
Then, quickly changing the subject, he said:
"They tell me you have just returned from Europe. You were in Madrid?"
"Yes, senor, several months."
"How happens it that you return without bringing me a letter of
recommendation?"
"Senor," replied Ibarra, bowing, "because, having heard there of the
character of Your Excellency, I thought a letter of recommendation
would not only be unnecessary, but might even offend you; the Filipinos
are all recommended to you."
A smile curled the lips of the old soldier, who replied slowly,
as though meditating and weighing his words: