man, you should know what a weight rests on our shoulders. Here we
old soldiers have to be all--king, ministers of state, of war, of
justice, of everything; and yet, in every event, we have to consult
the far-off mother country, which often must approve or reject our
propositions with blind justice. If in Spain itself, with the advantage
of everything near and familiar, all is imperfect and defective,
the wonder is that all here is not revolution. It is not lack of good
will in the governors, but we must use the eyes and arms of strangers,
of whom, for the most part, we can know nothing, and who, instead of
serving their country, may be serving only their own interests. The
monks are a powerful aid, but they are not sufficient. You inspire
great interest in me, and I would not have the imperfection of our
governmental system tell in anyway against you. I cannot watch over
any one; every one cannot come to me. Tell me, can I be useful to
you in any way? Have you any request to make?"
Ibarra reflected.
"Senor," he replied, "my great desire is for the happiness of my
country, and I would that happiness might be due to the efforts
of our mother country and of my fellow-citizens united to her and
united among themselves by the eternal bonds of common views and
interests. What I would ask, the Government alone can give, and that
after many continuous years of labor and of well-conceived reforms."
The general gave him a long look, which Ibarra bore naturally,
without timidity, without boldness.
"You are the first man with whom I've spoken in this country," cried
His Excellency, stretching out his hand.
"Your Excellency has seen only those who while away their lives
in cities; he has not visited the falsely maligned cabins of our
villages. There Your Excellency would be able to see veritable men,
if to be a man a noble heart and simple manners are enough."
The captain-general rose and walked up and down the room.
"Senor Ibarra," he said, stopping before Crisostomo, "your education
and manner of thinking are not for this country. Sell what you own
and come with me when I go back to Europe; the climate will be better
for you."
"I shall remember all my life this kindness of Your Excellency,"
replied Ibarra, moved; "but I must live in the country where my
parents lived----"
"Where they died, you would say more justly. Believe me, I, perhaps,
know your country better than you do yourself. Ah, but I forget! You
are to marry an adorable girl, and I'm keeping you from her all this
time! Go--go to her! And that you may have more freedom, send the
father to me," he added, smiling. "Don't forget, though, that I want
your company for the promenade."
Ibarra saluted, and went out.
The general called his aide-de-camp.
"I am pleased," said he, giving him a light tap on the shoulder;
"I have seen to-day for the first time how one may be a good Spaniard
without ceasing to be a good Filipino. What a pity that this Ibarra
some day or other----but call the alcalde."
The judge at once presented himself.
"Senor alcalde," said the general, "to avoid a repetition of scenes
like those of which you were a spectator to-day--scenes, I deplore,
because they reflect upon the Government and upon all Spaniards--I
recommend the Senor Ibarra to your utmost care and consideration."
The alcalde perceived the reprimand and lowered his eyes.
Captain Tiago presented himself, stiff and unnatural.
"Don Santiago," the general said affectionately, "a moment ago I
congratulated you upon having a daughter like the Senorita de los
Santos. Now I make you my compliments upon your future son-in-law. The
most virtuous of daughters is worthy of the first citizen of the
Philippines. May I know the day of the wedding?"
"Senor----" stammered Captain Tiago, wiping drops of sweat from
his brow.
"Then nothing is settled, I see. If witnesses are lacking, it will
give me the greatest pleasure to be one of them."
"Yes, senor," said Captain Tiago, with a smile to stir compassion.
Ibarra had gone off almost running to find Maria Clara. He had so much
to talk over with her. Through a door he heard the murmur of girls'
voices. He knocked.
"Who is there?" asked Maria.
"I."
The voices were hushed, but the door did not open.
"It's I. May I come in?" demanded Crisostomo, his heart beginning to
beat violently.
The silence continued. After some moments, light foot-steps approached
the door, and the voice of Sinang said through the keyhole:
"Crisostomo, we're going to the theatre to-night. Write what you have
to say to Maria Clara."
"What does that mean?" said Ibarra to himself as he slowly left
the door.
XXXII.
THE PROCESSION.
That evening, in the light of countless lanterns, to the sound of
bells and of continuous detonations, the procession started for the
fourth time.
The captain-general, who had set out on foot, accompanied by his two
aides-de-camp, Captain Tiago, the alcalde, the alferez, and Ibarra, and
preceded by the guards, to open a passage, was to view the procession
from the house of the gobernadorcillo. This functionary had built a
platform for the recitation of a loa, a religious poem in honor of
the patron saint.
Ibarra would gladly have renounced the hearing of this composition,
but His Excellency had ordered his attendance, and Crisostomo must
console himself with the thought of seeing his fiancee at the theatre.
The procession began by the march of the silver candelabra, borne
by three sacristans. Then came the school children and their
master, then other children, all with paper lanterns, shaped and
ornamented according to the taste of each child--for each was
his own lantern-maker--hoisted on bamboo poles of various lengths
and lighted by bits of candles. An effigy of St. John the Baptist
followed, borne on a litter, and then came St. Francis, surrounded by
crystal lamps. A band followed, and then the standard of the saint,
borne by the brothers of the Third Order, praying aloud in a sort of
lamentation. San Diego came next, his car drawn by six brothers of the
Third Order, probably fulfilling some vow. St. Mary Magdalen followed
him, a beautiful image with splendid hair, wearing a costume of silk
spangled with gold, and holding a handkerchief of embroidered pina
in her jewelled hands. Lights and incense surrounded her, and her
glass tears reflected the varied colors of Bengal lights. St. John
the Baptist moved far ahead, as if ashamed of his camel's hair beside
all this gold and glitter.
After the Magdalen came the women of the order, the elder first, so
that the young girls should surround the car of the Virgin; behind
them was the curate under his dais. The car of the Virgin was preceded
by men dressed as phantoms, to the great terror of the children;
the women wore habits like those of religious orders. In the midst of
this obscure mass of robes and cowls and cordons one saw, like dainty
jasmines, like fresh sampages amid old rags, twelve little girls in
white, their hair free. Their eyes shone like their necklaces. One
might have thought them little genii of the light taken prisoner by
spectres. By two wide blue ribbons they were attached to the car of
the Virgin, like the doves which draw the car of Spring.
At the gobernadorcillo's the procession stopped, all the images and
their attendants were drawn up around the platform, and all eyes were
fixed on the half-open curtain. At length it parted, and a young man
appeared, winged, booted like a cavalier, with sash and belt and plumed
hat, and in Latin, Castilian, and Tagal recited a poem as extraordinary
as his attire. The verses ended, St. John pursued his bitter way.
At the moment when the figure of the Virgin passed the house of Captain
Tiago, a celestial song greeted it. It was a voice, sweet and tender,
almost weeping out the Gounod "Ave Maria." The music of the procession
died away, the prayers ceased. Father Salvi himself stood still. The
voice trembled; it drew tears; it was more than a salutation: it was
a supplication and a complaint.
Ibarra heard, and fear and darkness entered his heart. He felt the
suffering in the voice and dared not ask himself whence it came.
The captain-general was speaking to him.
"I should like your company at table. We will talk to those children
who have disappeared," he said.
Crisostomo, looking at the general without seeing him, asked himself
under his breath: "Can I be the cause?" And he followed the governor
mechanically.
XXXIII.
DONA CONSOLACION.
Why were the windows of the house of the alferez not only without
lanterns, but shuttered? Where, when the procession passed, were the
masculine head with its great veins and purple lips, the flannel shirt,
and the big cigar of the "Muse of the Municipal Guard"?
The house was sad, as Sinang said, because the people were gay. Had
not a sentinel paced as usual before the door one might have thought
the place uninhabited.
A feeble light showed the disorder of the room, where the alfereza
was sitting, and pierced the dusty and spider-webbed conches of the
windows. The dame, according to her idle custom, was dozing in a
fauteuil. To deaden the sound of the bombs, she had coifed her head
in a handkerchief, from which escaped her tangled hair, short and
thin. This morning she had not been to mass, not because she did not
wish it, but because her husband had not permitted it, accompanying
his prohibition with oaths and threats of blows. Dona Consolacion
was now dreaming of revenge. She bestirred herself at last and ran
over the house from one end to the other, her dark face disquieting
to look at. A spark flashed from her eyes like that from the pupil
of a serpent trapped and about to be crushed. It was cold, luminous,
penetrating; it was viscous, cruel, repulsive. The smallest error on
the part of a servant, the least noise, drew forth words injurious
enough to smirch the soul; but nobody replied; to offer excuse would
have been to commit another crime.
In this way the day passed. Meeting no opposition--her husband had
been invited to the gobernadorcillo's--she stored up spleen; the
cells of her organism seemed slowly charging with electric force,
which burst out, later on, in a tempest.
Sisa had been in the barracks since her arrest the day before. The
alferez, fearing she might become the sport of the crowd, had ordered
her to be kept until the fete was over.
This evening, whether she had heard the song of Maria Clara, whether
the bands had recalled airs that she knew, for some reason she began to
chant, in her sympathetic voice, the songs of her youth. The soldiers
heard and became still; they knew these airs, had sung them themselves
when they were young and free and innocent. Dona Consolacion heard,
too, and inquired for the singer.
"Have her come up at once," she said, after a moment's reflection,
something like a smile flickering on her dry lips.
The soldiers brought Sisa, who came without fear or question. When
she entered she seemed to see no one, which wounded the vanity of
the dreadful muse. Dona Consolacion coughed, motioned the soldiers
to withdraw, and, taking down her husband's riding whip, said in a
sinister voice:
"Vamos, magcanter icau!"
It was an order to sing, in a mixture of Castilian and Tagalo. Dona
Consolacion affected ignorance of her native tongue, thinking thus to
give herself the air of a veritable Orofea, as she said in her attempt
at Europea. For if she martyred the Tagalo, she treated Castilian
worse, though her husband, and chairs and shoes, had contributed to
giving her lessons.
Sisa had been happy enough not to understand. The forehead of the
shrew unknotted a bit, and a look of satisfaction animated her face.
"Tell this woman to sing!" she said to the orderly. "She doesn't
understand; she doesn't know Spanish!"
The orderly spoke to Sisa, and she began at once the "Night Song."
At first Dona Consolacion listened with a mocking smile, but little
by little it left her lips. She became attentive, then serious. Her
dry and withered heart received the rain. "The sadness, the cold,
the dew come down from the sky in the mantle of the night," seemed
to fall upon her heart; she understood "the flower, full of vanity,
and prodigal with its splendors in the sun, now, at the fall of day,
withered and stained, repentant and disillusioned, trying to raise
its poor petals toward heaven, begging a shade to hide it from the
mockery of the sun, who had seen it in its pomp, and was laughing at
the impotence of its pride; begging also a drop of dew to be let fall
upon it."
"No! Stop singing!" she cried in perfect Tagal. "Stop! These verses
bore me!"
Sisa stopped. The orderly thought: "Ah, she knows the Tagal!" And he
regarded his mistress with admiration.
She saw she had betrayed herself, became ashamed, and shame in her
unfeminine nature meant rage. She showed the door to the imprudent
orderly, and shut it behind him with a blow. Then she took several
turns around the room, wringing the whip in her nervous hands. At last,
planting herself before Sisa, she said to her in Spanish: "Dance!"
Sisa did not move.
"Dance! Dance!" she repeated in a threatening voice. The poor thing
looked at her with vacant eyes. The vixen took hold of one of her
arms and then the other, raising them and swaying them about. It was
of no use. Sisa did not understand.
In vain Dona Consolacion began to leap about, making signs for Sisa to
imitate her. In the distance a band was playing a slow and majestic
march; but the creature leaped furiously to another measure, beating
within herself. Sisa looked on, motionless. A faint curiosity rose
in her eyes, a feeble smile moved her pale lips; the alfereza's dance
pleased her.
The dancer stopped, as if ashamed, and raised the terrible whip,
well known to thieves and soldiers.
"Now," said she, "it's your turn! Dance!" And she began to give light
taps to the bare feet of bewildered Sisa, whose face contracted with
pain; the poor thing tried to ward off the blows with her hands.
"Ah! You're beginning, are you?" cried Dona Consolacion, with savage
joy, and from lento, she passed to allegro vivace.
Sisa cried out and drew up first one foot and then the other.
"Will you dance, accursed Indian!" and the whip whistled.
Sisa let herself fall to the floor, trying to cover her feet,
and looking at her tormenter with haggard eyes. Two lashes on the
shoulders forced her to rise with screams.
Her thin chemise was torn, the skin broken and the blood flowing.
This excited Dona Consolacion still more.
"Dance! Dance!" she howled, and seizing Sisa with one hand, while
she beat her with the other, she commenced to leap about again.
At length Sisa understood, and followed, moving her arms without
rhythm or measure. A smile of satisfaction came to the lips of the
horrible woman--the smile of a female Mephistopheles who has found
an apt pupil: hate, scorn, mockery, and cruelty were in it; a burst
of demoniacal laughter could not have said more.
Absorbed by her delight in this spectacle, the alfereza did not know
that her husband had arrived until the door was violently thrown open
with a kick.
The alferez was pale and morose. When he saw what was going on, he
darted a terrible glance at his wife, then quietly put his hand on
the shoulder of the strange dancer, and stopped her motion. Sisa,
breathing hard, sat down on the floor. He called the orderly.
"Take this woman away," he said; "see that she is properly cared for,
and has a good dinner and a good bed. To-morrow she is to be taken
to Senor Ibarra's."
Then he carefully closed the door after them, pushed the bolt, and
approached his wife.
XXXIV.
RIGHT AND MIGHT.
It was ten o'clock in the evening. The first rockets were slowly
going up in the dark sky, where bright-colored balloons shone like new
stars. On the ridge-poles of the houses men were seen armed with bamboo
poles, with pails of water at hand. Their dark silhouettes against the
clear gray of the night seemed phantoms come to share in the gayety of
men. They were there to look out for balloons that might fall burning.
Crowds of people were going toward the plaza to see the last play
at the theatre. Bengal fires burned here and there, grouping the
merry-makers fantastically.
The grand estrade was magnificently illuminated. Thousands of lights
were fixed round the pillars, hung from the roof and clustered near
the ground.
In front of the stage the orchestra was tuning its instruments. The
dignitaries of the pueblo, the Spaniards, and wealthy strangers
occupied seats in rows. The people filled the rest of the place;
some had brought benches, rather to mount them than to sit on them,
and others noisily protested against this.
Comings and goings, cries, exclamations, bursts of laughter, jokes,
a whistle, swelled the tumult. Here the leg of a bench gave way and
precipitated those on it, to the delight of the spectators; there
was a dispute for place; and a little beyond a fracas of glasses
and bottles. It was Andeng, carrying a great tray of drinks, and
unfortunately she had encountered her fiance, who was disposed to
profit by the occasion.
The lieutenant, Don Filipo, was in charge of the spectacle, for
the gobernadorcillo was playing monte, of which he was a passionate
devotee. Don Filipo was talking with old Tasio, who was on the point
of leaving.
"Aren't you going to see the play?"
"No, thank you! My own mind suffices for rambling and dreaming,"
replied the philosopher, laughing. "But I have a question
to propose. Have you ever observed the strange nature of our
people? Pacific, they love warlike spectacles; democratic, they adore
emperors, kings, and princes; irreligious, they ruin themselves in
the pomps of the ritual; the nature of our women is gentle, but they
have deliriums of delight when a princess brandishes a lance. Do you
know the cause of all this? Well----"
The arrival of Maria Clara and her friends cut short the
conversation. Don Filipo accompanied them to their places. Then came
the curate, with his usual retinue.
The evening began with Chananay and Marianito in "Crispino and the
Gossip." The scene fixed the attention of every one. The act was
ending when Ibarra entered. His coming excited a murmur, and eyes
turned from him to the curate. But Crisostomo observed nothing. He
gracefully saluted Maria and her friends and sat down. The only one
who spoke to him was Sinang.
"Have you been watching the fireworks?" she asked.
"No, little friend, I had to accompany the governor-general."
"That was too bad!"
Brother Salvi had risen, gone to Don Filipo, and appeared to be having
with him a serious discussion. He spoke with heat, the lieutenant
calmly and quietly.
"I am sorry not to be able to satisfy your reverence, but Senor Ibarra
is one of the chief contributors to the fete, and has a perfect right
to be here so long as he creates no disturbance."
"But is it not creating a disturbance to scandalize all good
Christians?"
"Father," replied Don Filipo, "my slight authority does not permit me
to interfere in religious matters. Let those who fear Senor Ibarra's
contact avoid him: he forces himself upon no one; the senor alcalde
and the captain-general have been in his company all the afternoon;
it hardly becomes me to give them a lesson."
"If you do not put him out of the place, we shall go."
"I should be very sorry, but I have no authority to remove him."
The curate repented of his threat, but there was now no remedy. He
motioned to his companions, who rose reluctantly, and all went out,
not without hostile glances toward Ibarra.
The whisperings and murmurs began again. Several people came up to
Crisostomo and said:
"We are with you; pay no attention to them!"
"To whom?" he asked in astonishment.
"Those who have gone out because you are here; they say you are
excommunicated."
Ibarra, surprised, not knowing what to say, looked about him. Maria's
face was hidden.
"Is it possible? Are we yet in the middle ages?" he began. But he
checked himself and said to the girls:
"I must excuse myself; I will be back to go home with you."
"Oh, stay!" said Sinang. "Yeyeng is going to dance!"
"I cannot, little friend."
While Yeyeng was coming forward, two soldiers of the guard approached
Don Filipo and demanded that the representation be stopped.
"And why?" he asked in surprise.
"Because the alferez and his wife have been fighting; they want
to sleep."
"Tell the alferez we have the permission of the alcalde of the
province, and nobody in the pueblo can overrule that, not even the
gobernadorcillo."
"But we have our orders to stop the performance."
Don Filipo shrugged his shoulders and turned his back. The Comedy
Company of Tondo was about to give a play, and the audience was
settling for its enjoyment.
The Filipino is passionately fond of the theatre; he listens in
silence, never hisses, and applauds with measure. Does not the
spectacle please him? He chews his buyo and goes out quietly, not
to trouble those who may like it. He expects in his plays a combat
every fifteen seconds, and all the rest of the time repartee between
comic personages, or terrifying metamorphoses. The comedy chosen for
this fete was "Prince Villardo, or the Nails Drawn from the Cellar
of Infamy," comedy with sorcery and fireworks.
Prince Villardo presented himself, defying the Moors, who held his
father prisoner. He threatened to cut off all their heads at a single
stroke and send them into the moon.
Fortunately for the Moors, as they were preparing for the combat, a
tumult arose. The music stopped, and the musicians assailed the theatre
with their instruments, which went flying in all directions. The
valiant Villardo, unprepared for so many foes, threw down his sword and
buckler and took to flight, and the Moors, seeing the hasty leave of
so terrible a Christian, made bold to follow him. Cries, exclamations,
and imprecations rose on all sides, people ran against one another,
lights went out, children screamed, and benches were overturned in
a hurly-burly. Some cried fire, some cried "The tulisanes!"
What had happened? The two guards had driven off the musicians,
and the lieutenant and some of the cuadrilleros were vainly trying
to check their flight.
"Take those two men to the tribunal!" cried Don Filipo. "Don't let
them escape!"
When the crowd had recovered from its fright and taken account of
what had happened, indignation broke forth.
"That's why they are for!" cried a woman, brandishing her arms; "to
trouble the pueblo! They are the real tulisanes! Fire the barracks!"
Stones rained on the group of cuadrilleros leading off the guards,
and the cry to fire the barracks was repeated. Chananay in her costume
of Leonora in "Il Trovatore" was talking with Ratia, in schoolmaster's
dress; Yeyeng, wrapped in a shawl, was attended by Prince Villardo,
while the Moors tried to console the mortified musicians; but already
the crowd had determined upon action, and Don Filipo was doing his
best to hold them in check.
"Do nothing rash!" he cried. "To-morrow we will demand satisfaction;
we shall have justice; I promise you justice!"
"No," replied some; "that's what they did at Calamba: they promised
justice, and the alcalde didn't do a thing! We will take justice for
ourselves! To the barracks!"
Don Filipo, looking about for some one to aid him, saw Ibarra.
"For heaven's sake, Senor Ibarra, keep the people here while I go
for the cuadrilleros!"
"What can I do?" demanded the perplexed young fellow; but Don Filipo
was already in the distance.
Ibarra, in his turn, looked about for aid, and saw Elias. He ran
to him, took him by the arm, and, speaking in Spanish, begged him
to do what he could for order. The helmsman disappeared in the
crowd. Animated discussions were heard, and rapid questions; then,
little by little, the mass began to dissolve and to wear a less hostile
attitude. It was time; the soldiers arrived with bayonets fixed.
As Ibarra was about to enter his house that night a little man in
mourning, having a great scar on his left cheek, placed himself in
front of him and bowed humbly.
"What can I do for you?" asked Crisostomo.
"Senor, my name is Jose; I am the brother of the man killed this
morning."
"Ah," said Ibarra, "I assure you I am not insensible to your loss. What
do you wish of me?"
"Senor, I wish to know how much you are going to pay my brother's
family."
"Pay!" repeated Crisostomo, not without annoyance. "We will talk of
this again; come to me to-morrow."
"But tell me simply what you will give," insisted Jose.
"I tell you we will talk of it another day, not now," said Ibarra,
more impatiently.
"Ah! You think because we are poor----"