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Friars and Filipinos

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Title: Friars and Filipinos

Author: José Rizal

Translator: Frank E. Gannett


        
Release date: October 17, 2009 [eBook #30278]
                Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRIARS AND FILIPINOS ***

                          Friars and Filipinos


                       An abridged translation of

                            Dr. José Rizal's

                   Tagalog Novel, "Noli Me Tangere."

                                   By
                         Frank Ernest Gannett.


                               New York:

                          The St. James Press.






                            Copyright, 1900,
                                   by
                         Frank Ernest Gannett.






                                   To

                         Jacob Gould Schurman,

                    President of Cornell University.






PREFACE.


While serving on the staff of the first United States Commission to the
Philippine Islands my attention was called to the life and writings
of Dr. José Rizal. I found in his novel, "Noli Me Tangere," the best
picture of the life of the people of those islands under Spanish rule,
and the clearest exposition of the governmental problems which Spain
failed to solve, and with which our own people must deal. It occurred
to me that an English translation of Rizal's work would be of great
value at the present time. My first intention was to reproduce the
entire novel as it was written, but, after careful consideration,
I thought best to abridge the story by the omission of some parts
which did not seem essential to the main purpose of the work. The
present volume is the result.

Readers should not understand any of Rizal's references to priests
and friars as reflections upon the Roman Catholic Church. He was
throughout his life an ardent Catholic, and died a firm adherent
of the Church. But he objected to the religious orders in the
Philippine Islands, because he knew well that they were more zealous
in furthering their own selfish ends than in seeking the advancement
of Christianity. From experience, Dr. Rizal knew that the friars,
under cloak of the gospel ministry, oppressed his fellow countrymen,
and took advantage of their superstition and ignorance. These wrongs
he was brave enough to expose in his writings. In the friars he saw an
obstacle to the education and enlightenment of the Filipino people,
and, using moderate means, he did his utmost to secure reform. His
writings will explain to us the cause of the hatred shown by the
Filipinos toward the religious corporations, and will make clearer
the nature of one of the present problems in the Philippines.

There are in the Philippines five religious orders: the Dominicans,
Franciscans, Recoletos, Augustines and Jesuits. According to John
Foreman, an eminent authority, the members of all of these, except
the last named, come from the lower classes in Spain, and are on
the whole comparatively ignorant and uncultured. Under the Spanish
system of government certain provinces were assigned to each of the
orders--except the Jesuits--and the friars were distributed among
the different parishes. In the town assigned to him the friar had
much authority. He was chief adviser in all civil affairs, and, by
his influence over the superstitious natives, maintained absolute
control in all matters pertaining to the local government as well
as to the local church. So firm was his hold that he led the Spanish
government to believe that the islands could not be ruled without his
aid. Knowing that his power rested on the ignorance of the people he
discouraged education among them. When native Filipinos advanced so
far as to prove an obstacle to the religious orders, as did Rizal and
many others, the friars sought to destroy them. Forgetting their holy
mission, the religious orders became commercial corporations, amassed
enormous wealth, and gained possession of the most valuable parts of
the islands, though to much of this property the titles are not clear.

From my own observation, and from information derived from the
Spaniards themselves, I am convinced that the author has not
overdrawn his pictures. In fact I have learned of instances where
the oppression and practices of the friars were even worse than those
described. Dr. Rizal has given us a portrayal of the Filipino character
from the viewpoint of the most advanced Filipino. He brings out many
facts that are pertinent to present-day questions, showing especially
the Malayan ideas of vengeance, which will put great difficulties
in the way of the pacifying of the islands by our forces. The reader
will not fail to notice the striking similarity between the life of
Ibarra, the hero, and that of Rizal, the author, a short sketch of
whose career has been given in the following pages.

For assistance in preparing this volume for publication I offer
sincere thanks to William H. Glasson, Ph.D., Instructor in History
in the George School, Newtown, Pa. Dr. Glasson has read the entire
manuscript and proofs, and I have been glad to avail myself of his
advice on many doubtful points. I desire also to acknowledge my
indebtedness for favors received to Horatio Green, Interpreter to
the Supreme Court of the Philippine Islands, to W. G. Richardson,
of New York, and to the publishers.


    F. E. G.

    Ithaca, N. Y., Dec. 1, 1900.






CONTENTS.


        Chapter I.                        Page
        Don Santiago's Dinner                1

        Chapter II.
        At the Dinner Table                 11

        Chapter III.
        Heretic and Revolutionist           16

        Chapter IV.
        Captain Tiago                       23

        Chapter V.
        An Idyl on the Azotea               29

        Chapter VI.
        Things Philippine                   35

        Chapter VII.
        San Diego and Its People            40

        Chapter VIII.
        Ibarra and the Grave-Digger         47

        Chapter IX.
        Adventures of a School Teacher      51

        Chapter X.
        Lights and Shadows                  57

        Chapter XI.
        The Fishing Party                   59

        Chapter XII.
        In the Woods                        68

        Chapter XIII.
        In the House of Tasio               77

        Chapter XIV.
        The Eve of the Fiesta               83

        Chapter XV.
        As Night Comes On                   87

        Chapter XVI.
        The Hoisting Crane                  92

        Chapter XVII.
        The Banquet                        104

        Chapter XVIII.
        The First Cloud                    112

        Chapter XIX.
        His Excellency                     116

        Chapter XX.
        The Procession                     125

        Chapter XXI.
        Doña Consolacion                   129

        Chapter XXII.
        Might and Right                    137

        Chapter XXIII.
        Two Visitors                       145

        Chapter XXIV.
        Episode in Espadaña's Life         148

        Chapter XXV.
        Schemes                            161

        Chapter XXVI.
        The Persecuted                     165

        Chapter XXVII.
        The Cock Fight                     172

        Chapter XXVIII.
        The Two Señoras                    181

        Chapter XXIX.
        The Enigma                         188

        Chapter XXX.
        The Voice of the Persecuted        191

        Chapter XXXI.
        Elias's Family                     200

        Chapter XXXII.
        Changes                            207

        Chapter XXXIII.
        Playing Cards with the Shades      211

        Chapter XXXIV.
        The Discovery                      217

        Chapter XXXV.
        The Catastrophe                    223

        Chapter XXXVI.
        What People Say and Think          229

        Chapter XXXVII.
        Vae Victis!                        235

        Chapter XXXVIII.
        The Accursed                       244

        Chapter XXXIX.
        Maria Clara is Married             248

        Chapter XL.
        The Pursuit on the Lake            259

        Chapter XLI.
        Father Dámaso Explains             267

        Epilogue                           271






JOSÉ RIZAL.


Dr. José Rizal, of whose "Noli Me Tangere," the following story, is
an abridgement, is the most striking character to be found in the
history of the Philippine Islands. He was not only a great martyr
to the cause of liberty, and to the advancement of his fellow men,
but he was without doubt the greatest Filipino ever born, and his
memory is cherished to-day by his people as we ourselves cherish the
memory of Washington.

Rizal was born on June 19th, 1861, in the pueblo of Calamba, in the
province of Laguna, on the Island of Luzon. He came of a Tagalog
family, which, it is said, acknowledged a slight mixture of Chinese
blood, and possessed considerable property. As a child he gave evidence
of extraordinary precocity. He is said to have written poetry in his
native tongue at eight years of age, produced a successful melodrama
at fourteen, and later to have won prizes in literary contests with
writers of recognized ability.

After passing through the University of Manila, and receiving much
instruction at the hands of the Jesuit fathers, he was sent to Europe
to complete his education. He pursued courses of study in Spanish
and German universities, and won the degrees of Doctor of Medicine
and Doctor of Philosophy. Besides acquiring a knowledge of seven
languages he gained a brilliant reputation for proficiency in the
branch of optical surgery. For a time he was the leading assistant
in the office of a world-renowned specialist at Vienna.

While in Europe Rizal wrote several books and also gave considerable
time to sculpture and painting. His artistic ability was great,
and some of his productions are now treasured by friends into whose
possession they came. Rizal's best known work is his "Noli Me Tangere,"
written in Belgium about 1886 or 1887. This novel, with its vivid
picture of life in the Philippines, and its exposure of Spanish
misrule and oppression, won for him the bitter hatred of the friars,
and inspired the relentless persecution which only ended with the
taking of his life.

In 1889 Dr. Rizal returned to the Philippines, but was soon compelled
to leave his native land in order to escape forcible banishment. After
a short residence in Japan, he went to London, where he published
a work on the History of the Philippine Islands. About the same
time a sequel to "Noli Me Tangere," entitled "El Filibusterismo,"
was published. The hatred of the priests against him was further
inflamed by this production, and the government in Manila was forced
by the friars to forbid the circulation of any of his writings. Copies
of his novels were burned in the public squares, and it was worth
one's life to be found possessing a copy. Until very recently it has
been almost impossible to obtain a copy of Rizal's works, and it was
necessary to go to Europe to secure the one from which the following
abridged translation was made.

In 1892 Dr. Rizal was so overcome with a desire to see again his
beautiful fatherland that he ventured, in the face of all the dangers
that threatened him, to return to Manila. He had scarcely set foot
on shore, however, before he was arrested and thrown in prison. The
friars demanded his execution on the ground that he carried incendiary
leaflets for the purpose of stirring up a rebellion, but subsequent
inquiries showed that such leaflets had been introduced into his
baggage at the custom house through the intrigues of the Augustine
friars. Despite his indignant protestations of innocence; Rizal was
summarily condemned by the Spanish General, Despujols, to banishment
at Dapitan in the island of Mindanao. Although the trickery of the
friars became known to him, Despujols lacked courage to revoke his
order of banishment, for fear that he, too, would incur the hatred
of the powerful religious corporations.

After four years of exile Rizal saw plainly that the hostility of
the friars would make it impossible for him to live in his native
land. In 1896 a plague of yellow fever broke out in the island
of Cuba and Rizal volunteered to lend his medical services to the
Spanish government. Ramon Blanco, then general-in-chief of the Spanish
forces in the Philippines, accepted the generous offer and recalled
the young man to Manila that he might sail at once for Cuba. Alarmed
by demonstrations of popular affection for Rizal, who represented the
aspirations of the Filipino people, the Spanish authorities broke faith
with him and imprisoned him in the Fuerza de Santiago. He was arraigned
on false charges, given a military trial, and at the dictation of
the religious orders was sentenced to be shot as a traitor.

At dawn on December 30th, 1896, he was led to the place of execution
on the beautiful Luneta, overlooking the tranquil surface of Manila
Bay. Notices of the event had been published throughout the islands
and the day on which it was to occur was proclaimed a fiesta. Thousands
gathered around the place selected, and so evident was the sympathy of
the helpless Filipinos for the man who was to die for their sake that
Spain marshalled ten regiments of her soldiers about the spot. The
populace must be intimidated. A nation's hero was about to become a
nation's martyr. With face uplifted he glanced at the multitude about
him and smiled. They tied his arms behind him and made him face the
waters of the bay. In vain he protested and begged that he might die
facing his executioners. A squad of his fellow countrymen, who were
serving in Spain's army, were selected for the bloody work. They drew
in position to shoot him in the back. The order was given to fire,
but only one had the courage to obey. The bullet went straight and the
hero fell, but another shot was necessary to despatch his life. His
newly wedded wife remained with him to the end. The best hope of the
Filipino people was crushed; a light in a dark place was snuffed out.

Rizal was no extremist, no believer in harsh and bloody methods, no
revolutionist. He aimed to secure moderate and reasonable reforms, to
lessen the oppressive exactions of the friars, to examine into titles
of their land, and to make possible the education and uplifting of
his people. He loved Spain as he did his own country, and repeatedly
used his influence against the rebellious measures proposed by other
Filipino leaders. His execution was only one of the numerous outrages
which characterized Spain's reign in the Philippines.

In closing this short sketch of Rizal's life we can do no better
than to quote the estimate of him made by Dr. Ferdinand Blumentritt,
professor in the University of Leitmeritz, Austria, who prepared a
biographical sketch of Rizal. Dr. Blumentritt said:

"Not only is Rizal the most prominent man of his own people, but the
greatest man the Malayan race has produced. His memory will never
perish in his fatherland, and future generations of Spaniards will
yet learn to utter his name with respect and reverence."






FRIARS AND FILIPINOS.

CHAPTER I.

DON SANTIAGO'S DINNER.


In the latter part of October, Don Santiago de los Santos, popularly
known as Captain Tiago, gave a dinner. Though, contrary to his custom,
he had not announced it until the afternoon of the day on which it was
to occur, the dinner became at once the absorbing topic of conversation
in Binondo, in the other suburbs of Manila, and even in the walled
city. Captain Tiago was generally considered a most liberal man,
and his house, like his country, shut its doors to no one, whether
bent on pleasure or on the development of some new and daring scheme.

The dinner was given in the captain's house in Analoague street. The
building is of ordinary size, of the style of architecture common
to the country, and is situated on that arm of the Pasig called by
some Binondo Creek. This, like all the streams in Manila, satisfies a
multitude of needs. It serves for bathing, mortar-mixing, laundering,
fishing, means of transportation and communication, and even for
drinking water, when the Chinese water-carriers find it convenient
to use it for that purpose. Although the most important artery of
the busiest part of the town, where the roar of commerce is loudest
and traffic most congested, the stream is, for a distance of a mile,
crossed by only one wooden bridge. During six months of the year, one
end of this bridge is out of order, and the other end is impassable
during the remaining time.

The house is low and somewhat out of plumb. No one, however, knows
whether the faulty lines of the building are due to a defect in the
sight of the architect who constructed it, or whether they are the
result of earthquakes and hurricanes.

A wide staircase, with green balustrades and carpeted here and there in
spots, leads from the zaguan, or tiled entrance hall, to the second
story of the house. On either side of this staircase is a row of
flower-pots and vases, placed upon chinaware pedestals, brilliant in
coloring and fantastic in design. Upstairs, we enter a spacious hall,
which is, in these islands, called caida. This serves to-night for
the dining hall. In the middle of the room is a large table, profusely
and richly ornamented, fairly groaning under the weight of delicacies.

In direct contrast to these worldly preparations are the motley colored
religious pictures on the walls--such subjects as "Purgatory," "Hell,"
"The Last Judgment," "The Death of the Just," and "The Death of the
Sinner." Below these, in a beautiful renaissance frame, is a large,
curious linen engraving of two old ladies. The picture bears the
inscription "Our Lady of Peace, Propitious to Travellers, Venerated
in Antipolo, Visiting in the Guise of a Beggar the Pious Wife of the
Famous Captain Inés in Her Sickness." In the side of the room toward
the river, Captain Tiago has arranged fantastic wooden arches, half
Chinese, half European, through which one can pass to the roof which
covers part of the first story. This roof serves as a veranda, and
has been illuminated with Chinese lanterns in many colors and made
into a pretty little arbor or garden. The sala or principal room of
the house, where the guests assembled is resplendent with colossal
mirrors and brilliant chandeliers, and, upon a platform of pine,
is a costly piano of the finest workmanship.

People almost filled this room, the men keeping on one side and the
women on the other, as though they were in a Catholic church or a
synagogue. Among the women were a number of young girls, both native
and Spanish. Occasionally one of them forgot herself and yawned,
but immediately sought to conceal it by covering her mouth with her
fan. Conversation was carried on in a low voice and died away in
vague mono-syllables, like the indistinct noises heard by night in
a large mansion.

An elderly woman with a kindly face, a cousin of Captain Tiago,
received the ladies. She spoke Spanish regardless of all the
grammatical rules, and her courtesies consisted in offering to the
Spanish ladies cigarettes and betel nut (neither of which they use)
and in kissing the hands of the native women after the manner of
the friars. Finally the poor old lady was completely exhausted,
and, taking advantage of a distant crash occasioned by the breaking
of a plate, hurried off precipitately to investigate, murmuring:
"Jesús! Just wait, you good-for-nothings!"

Among the men there was somewhat more animation. In one corner of
the room were some cadets, who chatted with some show of interest,
but in a low voice. From time to time they surveyed the crowd and
indicated to each other different persons, meanwhile laughing more
or less affectedly.

The only people who appeared to be really enjoying themselves were
two friars, two citizens and an officer of the army who formed a
group around a small table, on which were bottles of wine and English
biscuits. The officer was old, tall and sunburnt, and looked as the
Duke of Alva might have looked, had he been reduced to a command in
the civil guard. He said little, but what he did say was short and
to the point. One of the friars was a young Dominican, handsome and
dressed with extreme nicety. He wore gold mounted spectacles and
preserved the extreme gravity of youth. The other friar, however,
who was a Franciscan, talked a great deal and gesticulated even
more. Although his hair was getting gray, he seemed to be well
preserved and in robust health. His splendid figure, keen glance,
square jaw and herculean form gave him the appearance of a Roman
patrician in disguise. He was gay and talked briskly, like one who
is not afraid to speak out. Brusque though his words might be, his
merry laugh removed any disagreeable impression.

As to the citizens, one of them was small in stature and wore a black
beard, his most noticeable feature being his large nose--so large
that you could scarcely believe that it was all his own. The other
was a young blonde, apparently a recent arrival in the country. The
latter was carrying on a lively discussion with the Franciscan.

"You will see," said the friar, "when you have been in the country
a few months, and will be convinced that what I say is right. It is
one thing to govern in Madrid and another to rule in the Philippines."

"But----"

"I, for example," continued Father Dámaso, raising his voice to prevent
the other from speaking, "I, who can point to my twenty-three years
of existence on bananas and rice, can speak with some authority on
this subject. Do not come to me with theories or arguments, for I
know the native. Remember, that when I came to this country, I was
sent to a parish, small and largely devoted to agriculture. I did not
understand Tagalog very well, but I received the confessions of the
women and we managed to understand each other. In fact, they came
to think so much of me that three years afterward, when I was sent
to another and larger town, where a vacancy had been created by the
death of the native parish priest, all the women were in tears. They
overwhelmed me with presents, they saw me off with bands of music----"

"But this only shows----"

"Wait, wait! Do not be in a hurry! My successor remained there a still
shorter time, but when he left there were more people to see him off,
more tears shed, and more music played, although he had treated the
people worse than I, and had raised the parish dues to a sum almost
double the amount I had exacted."

"But allow me----"

"Furthermore, I was twenty years in the town of San Diego and it was
only a few months ago--that--that I left. Twenty years! Surely any
one will admit that twenty years is time enough to get acquainted
with a town. There were six thousand people in San Diego, and I knew
every one of them as if he were my own child. I knew even the private
affairs of them all; I knew in what way this man was 'crooked,'
where the shoe pinched that one, what slips every girl had made and
with whom, and who was the true father of each child, for I received
all of their confessions and they always confessed scrupulously. I
can prove what I say by Santiago, our host, for he has considerable
property in that town, and it was there that we became friends. Well,
then! This will show you what sort of people the natives are: when I
went away, only a few old women and some lay brothers saw me off. And
that, after I had been there twenty years! Don't you see that this
proves beyond a doubt that all the reforms attempted by the Ministers
of the Government in Madrid are perfectly absurd?"

It was now the young man's turn to be perplexed. The lieutenant, who
had been listening to the argument, knit his brows. The little man
with the black beard made ready to combat or support Father Dámaso's
arguments, while the Dominican was content to remain entirely neutral.

"But do you believe----," the young man finally asked in a curious
mood, and looking straight at the friar.

"Do I believe it? As I do the Gospel! The native is so indolent!"

"Ah! Pardon me for interrupting you," said the young blonde, lowering
his voice and drawing his chair closer, "but you have spoken a word
that arouses my interest. Is this indolence an inherent characteristic
of the native, or is it true, as a foreign traveller has said in
speaking of a country whose inhabitants are of the same race as these,
that this indolence is only a fabrication to excuse our own laziness,
our backwardness and the faults of our celestial system?"

"Bah! That is nothing but envy! Ask Señor Laruja, who knows this
country very well, whether the native has his equal in the world for
indolence and ignorance."

"It is a fact," replied the little man referred to, "that
nowhere in the world can any one be found more indolent than the
native. Positively nowhere!"

"Nor more vicious and ungrateful!"

"Nor with less education!"

Somewhat uneasy, the blonde man began to glance about the
room. "Gentlemen," he said in a low voice, "I believe that we are in
the house of a native, and these young ladies may----"

"Bah! Don't be so sensitive. How long have you been in the country?"

"Four days," answered the young man somewhat ruffled.

"Did you come here as an employee?"

"No, sir. I came on my own account in order to become acquainted with
the country."

"Man, what a rare bird you are!" exclaimed Father Dámaso, looking
at him with curiosity. "To come here on your own account for such
foolish ends! What a phenomenon! And when so many books have been
written about this country----"

Then, striking the arm of his chair with sudden violence, he exclaimed:
"The country is being lost; it is lost already. The governing power
supports heretics against the ministers of God."

"What do you mean?" again asked the lieutenant, half rising from
his chair.

"What do I mean?" repeated Father Dámaso, again raising his voice,
and facing the lieutenant. "I mean what I say. I mean that, when a
priest turns away the corpse of a heretic from his cemetery, no one,
not even the King himself, has the right to interfere, and still less
to punish. And yet a general, a miserable little general----"

"Father! His Excellency is the vice-regal representative of His
Majesty the King!" exclaimed the officer, rising to his feet.

"What do I care for His Excellency, or for any of your vice-regal
representatives!" answered the Franciscan, rising in his turn. "In
any other time than the present, he would have been thrown down
stairs in the same way as the religious corporations treated the
sacrilegious governor Bustamente in his time. Those were the days
when there was faith!"

"I'll tell you right here that I don't allow any--His Excellency
represents His Majesty the King!"

"I don't care whether he is king or rogue. For us there is no king
other than the true----"

"Stop this immediately!" shouted the lieutenant in a threatening
manner, and as though he were commanding his own soldiers. "Take back
what you have said, or to-morrow I shall inform His Excellency."

"Go and tell him at once! Go tell him!" answered Father Dámaso,
sarcastically, at the same time approaching the lieutenant with his
fists doubled. "Don't you think for a moment that, because I wear
the dress of a monk, I'm not a man. Hurry! Go tell him! I'll lend
you my carriage."

The discussion began to grow ridiculous as the speakers became more
heated, but, at this point, fortunately, the Dominican interfered.

"Gentlemen!" he said in a tone of authority, and with that nasal
twang which is so characteristic of the friars, "there is no reason
why you should thus confuse matters or take offense where it is not
intended. We should distinguish between what Father Dámaso says as
a man, and what he says as a priest. Whatever he may say as a priest
cannot be offensive, for the words of a priest are understood to be
absolutely true."

"But I understand what his motives are, Father Sibyla!" interrupted
the lieutenant, who saw that he would be drawn into a net of such
fine distinction that, if he allowed it to go on, Father Dámaso
would get off scot free. "I know very well what his motives are,
and Your Reverence will also perceive them. During the absence of
Father Dámaso from San Diego, his assistant buried the body of a very
worthy person. Yes, sir, an extremely worthy person! I had known
the man from time to time and had often been his guest. What if he
never had been to confession? I do not confess, either. To say that
he committed suicide is a lie, a slander. A man such as he, with
a son whose success and love were more than all the world to him;
a man who believed in God, who fulfilled his duty to society, who
was honorable and just--such a man does not commit suicide. That is
what I say! I am not telling you all that I think about this matter,
and Your Reverence should be very thankful that I restrain myself."

Turning his back on the Franciscan, he continued: "As I was saying,
this priest, when he returned to the town, after maltreating his
coadjutor, ordered that the man's body be taken up and thrown out of
the cemetery, to be buried I know not where. The town of San Diego
was too cowardly to protest, though, in fact, very few people knew
much about the matter. The dead man had no relatives in the town and
his only son was in Europe. His Excellency, however, learned about
the affair, and being at heart upright and just, he ordered that the
priest be punished. As a result, Father Dámaso was transferred to
another but better town. That is all there was to it. Now you can
make all the distinctions you like."

So saying, he left the group.

"I am very sorry to have touched upon so delicate a subject," said
Father Sibyla, "but, after all, if the change from one town to another
was to your advantage----"

"How could it be to my advantage? How about all the things that I
lost?" interrupted Father Dámaso, fairly boiling over with rage.

"Good evening, gentlemen! Good evening, Father!" said Captain Santiago,
who at that instant entered the room, leading a youth by the hand. On
saluting his guests in this manner, he kissed the hands of the priests,
who, by the way, forgot to give him their blessing. The Dominican took
off his gold-rimmed spectacles in order to examine the new arrival
at better advantage, while Father Dámaso, turning pale at the sight,
stared at the youth with eyes wide open.

"I have the honor of presenting to you Don Crisostomo Ibarra, the
son of my deceased friend," said Captain Tiago. "The young man has
just arrived from Europe, and I have been to meet him." At the mere
mention of the name, exclamations were heard in all parts of the
room. The lieutenant, forgetting himself entirely, did not stop to
salute his host, but at once approached the young man and surveyed
him from head to foot. The youth exchanged the usual greetings with
those who had gathered around him. He showed no striking peculiarity,
except in his sombre dress, which was in deep contrast with that of
the other persons present. His athletic build, his appearance, and
every movement he made showed, however, that a fine mind and a healthy
body had both been highly developed. You could see from his frank and
vivacious face that he had Spanish blood in his veins. Although his
hair, eyes and complexion were dark, his cheeks had a slight color,
due, no doubt, to residence in cold countries.

"What!" he exclaimed with glad surprise, "the parish priest of my
own town! Father Dámaso, my father's intimate friend!" Every one in
the room looked at the Franciscan, but the latter made no motion.

"You must excuse me, if I have made a mistake," added Ibarra, somewhat
in doubt because of the apathy of the friar.

"You have made no mistake," the priest finally answered in a strained
voice, "but your father was never an intimate friend of mine."

Ibarra slowly withdrew the hand which he had offered, looking at the
friar with great surprise. As he turned about, he came face to face
with the lieutenant just approaching.

"My boy, are you the son of Don Rafael Ibarra?"

The young man bowed in acquiescence. Father Dámaso settled back into
his arm-chair and fixed his eyes upon the lieutenant.

"Welcome to your country! May you be more happy in it than was your
father!" exclaimed the officer in a trembling voice. "I had many
dealings with your father and I knew him well, and I can say that he
was one of the most worthy and honorable men in the Philippines."

"Sir," replied Ibarra with emotion, "your praise of my father puts
me in doubt as to his fate. Even now I, his own son, am ignorant of
it all."

The eyes of the old man filled with tears. He turned and hurriedly
withdrew. Ibarra found himself standing alone in the middle of the
room. His host had disappeared, and he turned to a group of gentlemen,
who, as soon as they saw him coming, formed a semicircle to receive
him.

"Gentlemen," he said, "in Germany, when a stranger attends any
social function and there is no one present to introduce him, it is
allowable for him to introduce himself. Permit me to avail myself
of this practice. Gentlemen, my name is Juan Crisostomo Ibarra y
Magsalin." The others gave their names in turn, of which the most
were comparatively unknown.

"My name is A----a," said one of the young men, bowing stiffly.

"Then, perhaps, I have the honor of addressing the poet whose works
have kept up my enthusiasm for my country? I have been told that you
have stopped writing, but no one has told me why."

"Why? Because there is no use in invoking the muses for false and
foolish ends. A case has been made out against one man for having put
into verse a true story of Pero Grullo. I am not going to get myself
into a similar scrape. They may call me a poet, but they shall not
call me a fool."

"And can you not tell us what that true story was?"

"Yes. The poet said that the son of a lion is also a lion, and for
saying this he narrowly escaped being banished."

"Dinner is ready," announced a waiter who had been borrowed from the
Cáfé Campaña. The guests began to file into the dining room, not,
however, without many sighs, and even some prayers among the women,
especially the natives, that the dreaded affair would soon be over.






CHAPTER II

AT THE DINNER TABLE.


Father Sibyla wore a satisfied air. He moved along tranquilly, and
his closed, thin lips showed no signs of disdain. On the other hand,
the Franciscan was in a very bad humor. As he walked toward the table,
he kicked over the chairs which happened to be in his way and boxed the
ears of one of the cadets. The lieutenant was very solemn and grave.

The two friars instinctively started for the head of the table,
perhaps by force of habit, and, as might have been expected, they met
on opposite sides of the same chair. Then, with ponderous courtesy,
each entreated the other to sit down, giving in turn his reasons why
the other should take precedence. Every one at the table understood
how both really felt in the matter, and all knew well that the one
who did not take the coveted seat would grumble discontentedly for
the remainder of the evening. The farce proceeded something like this:

"You take it, Brother Dámaso! It is for you!"

"No, you take it, Brother Sibyla!"

"You are an old friend of the family, the confessor of its deepest
mysteries; your age, your dignity, your----"

"No, that is all right as far as age goes, but, on the other hand
you are the priest of this suburb," answered Father Dámaso in an
insincere tone, without, however, leaving the chair.

"As you order it, I obey," concluded Father Sibyla, making ready to
sit down.

"But I do not order it," protested the Franciscan, "I do not order it."

Father Sibyla was about to take the seat without any further regard to
the protests of his brother, when his eyes chanced to meet those of the
lieutenant. According to the religious customs in the Philippines, the
highest military officer is inferior to even a convent cook. "Cedent
arma togæ," said Cicero in the Senate. "Cedent arma cottæ," say the
friars in the Philippines. Father Sibyla, however, was a person of
some culture and refinement, and, as soon as he noticed the expression
on the lieutenant's face, said: "Here! We are now out in the world,
and not in the Church. This seat belongs to you, lieutenant!" But,
to judge from the tone of his voice, he thought that, although he
was out in the world and not in the Church, the seat nevertheless
belonged to him. The lieutenant, either to save himself trouble or
in order to avoid sitting between two friars, declined the honor in
a very few words.

Neither of the disputants had thought of the owner of the house. Ibarra
saw him looking upon the scene and smiling with satisfaction.

"How is this, Don Santiago! Aren't you going to sit down with us?"

But all of the seats were already occupied, and Lucullus did not dine
in the house of Lucullus.

"Sit still! Don't get up!" said Captain Tiago, laying his hand on
the young man's shoulder. "The fact is that this feast is given in
honor of the Virgin on account of your safe arrival. Here! Bring on
the tinola! I ordered some tinola made expressly for you, for I feel
quite certain that you have not had any since you left the Philippines
a long while ago."

A large dish was brought in, still steaming and filled to the brim
with tinola. The Dominican, after murmuring the Benedicite (to which
only a few of those present could give the response), began to serve
the contents of the dish. Either from carelessness or for some other
reason, he passed to Father Dámaso a plate filled with the soup and
stew, but containing only two small pieces of chicken, a bony neck and
a tough wing. Meanwhile the others, especially Ibarra, were eating all
sorts of choice bits. The Franciscan, of course, noticed this, mussed
over the stew, took a mouthful of the soup, dropped his spoon with a
clatter into his plate, and pushed the dish to one side. While this was
going on, the Dominican appeared to be absorbed in conversation with
the young blonde. Señor Laruja had also begun to converse with Ibarra.

"How long has it been since you were last in this country?" said he.

"About seven years," responded Ibarra.

"You must have forgotten all about it."

"On the contrary, although my country seems to have forgotten me,
I have always kept her in mind."

"What do you mean?" interposed the blonde.

"I mean that for over a year I have not received any news from here,
so that now I feel like a total stranger. I do not yet know how or
when my father died."

"Ah!" exclaimed the lieutenant.

"Where have you been that you did not telegraph?" asked one of the
ladies. "When I was married, we telegraphed to the Peninsula."

"Señora, for the last two years I have been in northern Europe,
in Germany and in Poland."

"And what country of Europe do you like best?" asked the young blonde,
who had been listening interestedly.

"After Spain, which is my second fatherland, oh--any free country
in Europe."

"You seem to have travelled a great deal--what is the most remarkable
thing that you have observed?" asked Laruja.

Ibarra appeared to be reflecting on the question. "Remarkable? In
what way?"

"For instance, in the life of the different peoples,--their social,
political and religious life----"

Ibarra meditated for some little time. "I always made it a point to
study the history of a country before visiting it, and I find that
national development invariably follows perfectly natural rules. I have
always noticed that the prosperity or poverty of different peoples
is in direct proportion to their liberties or their lack of liberty,
or, in other words, in proportion to the sacrifices or selfishness
of their forefathers."

"And is that all you have observed?" asked the Franciscan, with a
loud laugh. Up to this time, he had not uttered a single word, but
had given his attention to the dinner. "It was not worth while to
squander your fortune for the purpose of learning such a trifle--a
thing that every school boy knows."

Ibarra looked at him intently, doubtful what to say. The guests
glanced at each other, fearing that a quarrel would break out. "The
dinner has been too long, and Your Reverence is affected by too much
wine," Ibarra was about to reply, but he checked himself in time and
only said: "Gentlemen, do not wonder at the familiarity with which
our old parish priest treats me. He treated me this way when I was
a child, and the years that have passed since then have not changed
His Reverence. I derive a certain amount of pleasure from it, for I
am reminded of those days when His Reverence was a frequent visitor
at our house and honored my father's table."

The Dominican glanced furtively at the Franciscan, who was
trembling. Ibarra continued, rising from his chair: "You will allow
me to withdraw, for I have only just arrived, and I must leave
town to-morrow. Besides, I have a great many things to do before I
leave. The dinner is practically finished, and I drink very little
wine and scarcely touch spirits. Gentlemen, here's to Spain and the
Philippines."

Saying this, he emptied the glass, which, until then, he had not
touched. The old lieutenant followed his example, but said nothing.

"Do not go!" said Captain Tiago to him in a low voice. "Maria Clara
is coming immediately. Isabel has just gone to get her. The new parish
priest of your town is also coming, and he is a saint."

"I shall come to-morrow before I leave. I have to make a most
important visit yet to-night, and really must go!" With this he took
his departure. In the meantime, the Franciscan had recovered himself.

"You see how it is," said he to the young blonde, gesticulating with
his dessert knife. "It is nothing but pride. He could not bear to have
a priest reprove him. Can decent people believe it? This is the evil
consequence of sending young men to Europe. The Government ought to
prohibit it."

That night, the young blonde wrote, among other things, in the
first chapter of his "Colonial Studies": "How the neck and wing
of a chicken in a friar's plate of tinola can disturb the gayety
of a feast!" And among his other observations were the following:
"In the Philippines the most insignificant person at a dinner or a
feast is the host. The owner of the house has only to remain out in
the street, and everything will go along beautifully. In the present
state of affairs, it would be well to forbid the Filipinos to leave
their country, and not to teach them how to read."






CHAPTER III

HERETIC AND REVOLUTIONIST.


Ibarra was still confused, but the evening breeze, which, in Manila,
is at this time of the year always cool and refreshing, seemed gently
to lift the hazy mist which hung over his eyes. He removed his hat
and drew a deep, long breath.

Men of all nationalities passed by in swift carriages or in slow-going,
rented calesas. He was walking at that slow pace characteristic
alike of deep thought and laziness, and was making his way toward the
Plaza of Binondo. He looked about in search of any old and familiar
objects. Yes, there were the same old streets, the same old houses with
white and blue fronts, the same old walls covered with whitewash or
repainted in poor imitation of granite; there was the same old church
tower, its clock with transparent face still marking the hours; there,
too, were the old Chinese shops, with their dirty curtains and iron
rods, one of which remained unrepaired as he himself had bent it when
a boy.

"Things go slowly here!" he muttered and continued up the street past
the vestry.

As they dished up flavored ices, the street vendors were still crying
"sorbettes." The same little cocoanut oil lamps furnished light for
the stands where native women and Chinese disposed of their sweetmeats
and fruit.

"It is marvellous," he exclaimed. "There is the same Chinaman who was
at that stand seven years ago. There is that same old woman whom I
remember so well. Why, one might think my seven years in Europe but
a night's sleep. And, by heavens, they have not yet repaired this
broken place in the pavement!"

Indeed, the stone which had been torn out of the pavement before
he left Manila had not yet been replaced. While he was meditating
upon the wonderful stability of things in so unstable a country,
some one placed a hand upon his shoulder. With a start he looked up,
and his eyes met those of the old lieutenant, who also had left the
Captain's house. A smile had displaced the officer's usual harsh
expression and characteristic frown.

"Be careful, young man!" said he. "Remember what happened to your
father!"

"I beg your pardon. You seem to have esteemed my father very
highly. Can you tell me what has been his fate?" asked Ibarra, gazing
intently into the lieutenant's eyes.

"Do you not know?" said the officer.

"I asked Don Santiago, but he said that he would tell me nothing
until to-morrow. Have you no information regarding him?"

"Why, yes; everybody knows about him. He died in prison."

The young man stepped back and stared wildly at the officer. "In
prison! Who died in prison?" he asked in astonishment.

"Why, your father, who had been arrested," answered the officer
somewhat surprised.

"What! My father in prison! Arrested and imprisoned! Man, what are
you talking about? Do you know who my father was? Are you----?" asked
the young man, nervously grasping the officer's arm.

"I don't think that I am mistaken: Don Rafael Ibarra."

"Yes. Don Rafael Ibarra," repeated the young man, scarcely able to
utter the words.

"I thought that you knew it," said the officer, in a sympathetic
voice, as he saw the emotion his words had caused. "I thought that
you knew it; but be brave. Here, you know, no man can be honorable
without being imprisoned."

"I cannot believe that you are not jesting," replied Ibarra, after
a few minutes of deep silence. "Can you tell me for what offense he
was imprisoned?"

The old man paused as if to meditate. "It seems strange to me that
you have not been kept informed as to the affairs of your family."

"My father's last letter, which I received a year ago, told me not
to be uneasy if he failed to write to me, for he was very busy. He
advised me to continue my studies, he sent me his blessing----"

"In that case, he must have written the letter to you shortly before
his death. It is almost a year since we buried him in his own town."

"Why was my father arrested?" asked Ibarra in a voice full of emotion.

"The cause of his arrest was an honorable one. I must go to my
quarters now; walk along with me and then I can tell you on the
way. Take my arm."

They walked for some time in melancholy silence. Deep in thought and
nervously stroking his goatee, the officer sought inspiration before
he could begin the pitiful tale.

"As you very well know," he at last began, "your father was the richest
man in the province, and, although he was loved and highly respected by
many, there were some envious persons who hated him. Your father had
a great many enemies among the priests and the Spaniards. Some months
after your departure, trouble arose between Don Rafael and Father
Dámaso, but I do not know what it was all about. Father Dámaso accused
your father of not attending confession. In former times, however,
he had never attended confession. Nothing was said about it, and he
and the priest were good friends, as you will remember. Furthermore,
Don Rafael was a very honorable man and much more upright and just
than many who go to confession regularly. He was very conscientious,
and, in speaking to me in regard to his troubles with Father Dámaso,
used to say:

"'Señor Guevara, do you believe that God will forgive a crime, a
murder for instance, simply because that crime has been confessed
to a priest--confessed to a man who is in duty bound to keep it
secret? Will God pardon a man whose repentance is brought about by
his cowardly fear of hell? I have a very different opinion of God. I
cannot see how one evil can be corrected by another, nor how pardon
can be procured by mere idle tears and donations to the Church.' Your
father always followed the strictest rules of morality. I may safely
say that he never harmed any one, but, on the contrary, always
sought by doing good to offset certain unjust deeds committed by your
grandfathers. However, his troubles with the priests continued and took
on a dangerous aspect. Father Dámaso alluded to him from the pulpit,
and, if he did not do so directly by name, it was an oversight on his
part, for anything might be expected from a man of his character. I
foresaw that sooner or later the affair would have a bad ending."

The old lieutenant paused for a few minutes and then continued:
"About this time there came to the province a man who had been in
the artillery, but had been thrown out of the ranks on account of
his brutality and ignorance. This man had to make a livelihood. He
was not allowed to engage in the work of an ordinary laborer, since
that might damage Spain's prestige, but somehow obtained the position
of collector of taxes on vehicles. He had no education whatever, and
the natives soon found it out. A Spaniard who cannot read and write
is a wonder to them, and hence he became the subject of all sorts of
ridicule. Knowing that he was being laughed at, he became ashamed to
collect his taxes. This had a bad effect on his character, which was
already bad enough. People used to give him documents upside down to
see him pretend to read them. He would make a show of doing so, and
then, on the first blank space he found, would fill in some sprawling
characters which, I may say, represented him very accurately. The
natives continued to pay their taxes, but kept on ridiculing him. He
fairly raved with anger and worked himself up to such a frame of
mind that he respected none. Finally, he had some words with your
father. It happened that one day, while the collector was studying
a document which had been given to him in a store, some school boys
came along. One of them called the attention of his companions to the
collector, and they all began to laugh and point their fingers at the
unhappy man. The collector finally lost his patience, turned quickly
and chased his tormentors. The boys, of course, ran in all directions,
at the same time mimicking a child learning the alphabet. Blind with
rage because he could not reach them, he threw his cane, struck one
of the boys on the head and knocked him down. Not content with this,
he went up and kicked the boy several times. Unfortunately, your father
happened to be passing just at the moment. Indignant at what he saw,
he seized the tax collector by the arm and severely reproached him for
his actions. The tax collector in anger raised his cane to strike,
but your father was too quick for him. With that strength which he
inherited from his forefathers, he, as some say, struck the collector,
or, as others claim, only gave him a push. The fact is that the man
staggered and fell to the ground, and, in falling, struck his head
against a stone. Don Rafael quietly lifted up the wounded boy and
carried him to the court house near by, leaving the collector where
he had fallen. The ex-artilleryman began to bleed at the mouth and
died without regaining consciousness.

"Naturally the law stepped in. They showered calumnies of all
kinds upon your father and accused him of being a heretic and a
revolutionist. To be a heretic is a great misfortune anywhere or
at any time, but it was especially so at this particular time,
for the chief magistrate of the province was the loudest prayer
maker in the Church. To be a revolutionist is still worse. One might
better have killed three highly educated tax collectors than be thus
accused. Everybody deserted your father, and his books and papers
were seized. He was accused of being a subscriber to 'El Correo del
Ultramar' and to Madrid newspapers, of having sent you to Germany,
of having in his possession incriminating papers and pictures,
and--well, I don't know what not. He was even attacked because,
although he was the descendant of Spaniards, he wore the dress of
the natives. If your father had been anybody else, he would have been
acquitted, for the doctors pronounced the death of the collector due
to natural causes. His fortune, however, his confidence in the law,
and his hatred for everything which seemed unlawful and unjust, cost
him his life. I myself, much as I dislike begging for mercy, called
upon the Governor General, the predecessor of the present Governor. I
brought out the fact that a man who aided every poor Spaniard, who
gave food and shelter to all, and whose veins were filled with the
generous blood of Spain--such a man could not be a revolutionist. In
vain I argued for him, pledged my own life for him, and swore by
my military honor. What did it all amount to? I was badly received,
curtly and summarily dismissed, and called a fool."

The old man paused to take breath. His young companion neither looked
up nor made a sound. The narrator proceeded: "I took charge of the
case for your father. I called upon the celebrated Filipino lawyer,
young A----a, but he refused to undertake the defense. 'I would lose
the case,' he said, 'my defense would cause new accusations against
him, and perhaps bring them upon me. Go and see Señor M----, who is an
eloquent orator, a Spaniard and a man of great reputation.' I did so,
and the celebrated lawyer took charge of the case, which he conducted
in a masterful and brilliant manner. But your father had many enemies,
some of whom did their work secretly. There were many false witnesses
in the case, and their calumnies, which anywhere else would have been
overthrown by a single sarcastic phrase from the defending attorney,
were here given a great deal of weight. As fast as the attorney
proved the falsity of their accusations, new charges were brought
forward. They accused him of having wrongfully taken possession of
a large tract of land. They sued him for damages and for injuries
caused. They said that he had dealings with the organized bandits
or tulisanes, and that thus he had been able to keep his property
unmolested. In fact, the case became so complicated that within a year
no one understood it. The chief magistrate was called away from his
post and replaced by another of good reputation, but unfortunately
this magistrate, too, was displaced in a few months.

"The sufferings, disappointments and discomforts of prison life,
and his great grief at seeing the ingratitude of so many supposed
friends, finally broke down your father's iron constitution and he
became fatally ill. When it was all over; when he had proved himself
not guilty of being an enemy to his country, and innocent of the
death of the tax collector, he died in prison, with no one to care
for him in his last hours. I arrived just as he was expiring."

The old man had finished all he had to say. Ibarra, overcome with
grief at the pathetic story he had heard, could not utter a word. The
two had arrived at the gate of the barracks. Stopping and shaking
hands with the young man, the officer said: "My boy, Captain Tiago
can give you the details. I must say good night, for my duty calls
me." With deep emotion, Ibarra grasped the lean hand of the lieutenant,
and then looked after him in silence until he disappeared in the
building. Turning slowly about, he saw a carriage passing and made
a sign to the cabman.

"Lala's Hotel," he said in a low voice.

"This fellow is just out of jail," said the cabman to himself as he
whipped up his horses.






CHAPTER IV

CAPTAIN TIAGO.


Captain Tiago was short in stature, but both his body and his
face were well filled out. His complexion was clear and he did not
appear to be more than thirty or thirty-five years old, although
he was really more than that. In these times his face always wore a
pleasant expression. His head was small, round and covered with hair
as black as ebony, long in front and very short behind. This head,
according to reports, contained a great many things. His eyes were
small but not terrifying, and always without expression. In short,
the Captain might have passed for a good-looking little man, if his
mouth had not been disfigured by the use of tobacco and the betel
nut, the juices of which trickled out of the corners of his lips and
destroyed the symmetry of his features. However, despite these habits,
both his own teeth and the two that the dentist had made for him,
at twelve pesos each, were well preserved.

Tiago was considered one of the richest property owners in Binondo,
and he also owned large plantations in the provinces of Pampanga and
Laguna de Bay, especially in the town of San Diego. The rent of all
these lands increased every year. San Diego was his favorite town
on account of its excellent bathing place, its famous cockpit and
the pleasant memories associated with the neighborhood. He spent at
least two months in this town every year. Captain Tiago also had
a great deal of property in Santo Cristo, in Analoague Street and
in Rosario Street. In partnership with a Chinaman he carried on a
profitable business in opium. It is understood that he had contracts
with the Government for feeding the prisoners in Bilibid and that
he supplied fodder to many of the principal houses in Manila. He was
in good standing with the authorities, able, clever, and even daring
in his speculations in the necessities of others. Hence it was that
at this time the Captain was as happy as a narrow-minded man could
be in such a country. He was rich, and was at peace with God, the
Government and man.

That Tiago was at peace with God was indisputable. In fact, there was
no reason whatever for his not being so, since he was well situated as
far as worldly matters go and had never loaned God any money. He never
addressed God in his prayers, not even when he was in dire straits. He
was rich, and his money, he thought, could pray for him. For masses
and prayers, God had created powerful and lofty priests; for special
religious functions and rosaries, God, in His infinite goodness, for
the benefit of the rich, had created poor people--poor people who for
a peso would make half a dozen prayers, and would read all the Holy
Books, even to the Hebrew Bible, if the pay were large enough. If
at any time he found himself in hard straits and needed heavenly
aid and was out of red Chinese candles, he applied to the saints,
making them great promises in order to win their favor and convince
them of his good intentions.

Captain Tiago was therefore beloved by the priests, respected by the
sacristans, fondled by the Chinese candle-makers and fire-cracker
merchants, and thoroughly happy in the religion of the world. Some
even attributed to him great influence in the ecclesiastical court.

That the Captain was at peace with the Government must not be doubted
simply because such a thing seems impossible. Incapable of conceiving a
new idea and content with the modus vivendi, he was always willing to
obey the latest official recruit in any of the Government offices and
even ready to give him at all times of the year such presents as hams,
capons, turkeys, and Chinese fruit. He was the first to applaud any
tax imposed by the Government, especially when he scented behind it
a chance of securing the contract for its collection. He always kept
orchestras on hand to serenade Government officials of all grades
from governor to the lowest Government agent, on their birthdays,
saint's days, or when any occasion, such as the death of any of
their relatives, or a birth in the family connection should afford
a pretext. He even went so far as to dedicate laudatory verses to
his royal patrons on these occasions, thus honoring the "suave and
loving governor" or the "valiant and mighty alcalde."

The Captain was a petty governor or gobernadorcillo of a rich colony
of mestizos, in spite of the protests of many who considered him
unfit for the position. He held the office for two years, but during
this time he wore out ten frock coats, about the same number of high
hats, and lost more than a half dozen of gobernadorcillo canes. His
high hat and frock coat were always in evidence in the city hall, at
the Government palace in Melacañan [1] and at the army headquarters,
and they always appeared, too, in the cock-pit, in the market, in all
processions, and in the Chinese shops. Dressed in this official costume
with the tasseled cane, Captain Tiago was to be found everywhere,
arranging, ordering, and putting in disorder, everything with which
he had anything to do--and all with wonderful activity and with still
more wonderful gravity.

Sacrilegious people called him a fool; poor people called him a
hypocrite, a cruel man who gained a livelihood by making others
miserable; while his inferiors looked upon him as a despot and a
tyrant. And the women? Ah, the women! Slanderous rumors circulated in
the wretched nipa houses, and it was claimed that often lamentations
and sobs, mingled with the cries of a child, could be heard. More
than one young girl was pointed out by the malicious finger of the
neighbors, with the remark: "See what a different expression she wears,
and how plainly she shows evidences of her shame." But such things as
these never robbed the Captain of any sleep; no young girl disturbed
his rest.

Such was the Captain at that time. His past history was as follows: He
was the only son of a very wealthy but avaricious sugar manufacturer
of Malabon, who was unwilling to spend a cent in his education. For
this reason young Santiago became the servant of a good Dominican, a
very virtuous man, who tried to teach him all the valuable knowledge
which he possessed. About the time when he was to have the happiness
of studying logic, the death of his protector, followed by that of his
father, put an end to his studies and from that time on he devoted
himself to business. He married a beautiful girl from Santa Cruz,
who increased his fortune and gave him a social position.

Doña Pia Alba was not content with buying sugar, coffee and indigo;
she wished to sow and reap, so the young husband bought lands in
San Diego. It was in this town that he made the acquaintance and
friendship of Father Dámaso and of Don Rafael Ibarra, the richest
capitalist of the town.

The lack of an heir for the first six years of his married life gave
him a great opportunity to accumulate wealth, which perhaps was a
censurable ambition. Although Doña Pia was handsome, robust and well
formed, she made her pilgrimages in vain. By advice of the devotees of
San Diego, she visited the Virgin of Cayasay in Taal; she gave alms,
and she danced in the procession before the Virgin of Turumba in Pakil
under the May sun, but it was all in vain. Finally, on the advice
of Father Dámaso, she went to Obando, and there danced at the fiesta
of San Pascual Bailon and asked for a son. It is well known that in
Obando there is a trinity--Our Lady of Salambau, Santa Clara and San
Pascual--which grants sons or daughters as required. Thanks to this
wise triumvirate, Doña Pia became a mother, but like the fisherman
in Macbeth, who ceased to sing after he found a rich treasure,
Doña Pia lost her gayety, became very sad and was never seen to
smile again. Every one, even to Captain Tiago, declared that it was
a pure caprice. A puerperal fever put an end to her grief, leaving
a beautiful daughter motherless. Father Dámaso baptized the child,
and, as San Pascual had not given the son which had been asked for,
the name of Maria Clara was given to it in honor of the Virgin of
Salambau and of Santa Clara. The little girl grew up under the care
of her aunt Isabel,--that good old lady with the manners of a friar
whom we met before. The little girl lived the greater part of the
time in San Diego on account of the healthful climate, and while
there Father Dámaso paid her much attention.

Maria Clara did not have the small eyes of her father. Like her mother,
her eyes were large, black and shaded by long lashes, brilliant and
smiling when she was playing, but sad, deep and pensive at other
times. When a child her wavy hair was almost blond. Her nose was
well formed, neither too large nor too flat. Her mouth was small and
beautifully shaped like that of her mother, and her cheeks were set
with dimples. Her skin was like silk and as white as snow, but her
fond parent found traces of the paternity of Captain Tiago in her
small and well shaped ears.

Aunt Isabel attributed the child's semi-European features to
impressions made upon Doña Pia. She remembered having seen the mother a
short time before the child was born, weeping before the image of San
Antonio. Then, too, a cousin of Captain Tiago had the same features,
the only difference being in the choice of the saints, by which the
phenomenon was explained. With her it was either the Virgin or San
Miguel. A cousin of Captain Tiago, a famous philosopher, who knew
Amat [2] by heart, explained it all by attributing it to the effect
of the planets.

Maria Clara, the idol of all, grew up surrounded by love and
smiles. She won the favor of even the friars when she was dressed in
white for some religious procession, her long, wavy hair interwoven
with flowers, two silver or golden wings attached to the shoulders
of her dress, and holding two white doves, tied with blue ribbons,
in her hand. When she grew up, she was so full of childish mischief
that Captain Tiago did nothing but bless the saints of Obando and
advise everybody to buy handsome statues of that trinity.

In tropical countries a girl becomes a woman at the age of thirteen
or fourteen years, like the plant which buds at night and blooms
the following morning. During this period of transition, so full of
mystery and romance, on the advice of the parish priest, Maria Clara
entered the religious retreat of Santa Catalina in order to receive
from the nuns a strictly religious education. She left Father Dámaso
in tears, and likewise the only friend of her childhood, Crisostomo
Ibarra. Shortly after the entrance to the convent, Ibarra went to
Europe. For seven long years, the girl lived under the vigilance of
the Mother Superior in the iron-grated building, shut off from any
communication with the outer world.

Don Rafael and Captain Tiago, in the meantime, while Ibarra was
in Europe and Maria Clara in the convent, noticing the trend of
affairs, and at the same time having in mind their own interests,
decided that the children should be married. It is needless to say
that this agreement, which was arrived at some years after Ibarra
had left for Europe, was celebrated with equal joy by two hearts,
on opposite sides of the world and amid very different surroundings.






CHAPTER V

AN IDYL ON THE AZOTEA. [3]


On the morning after the dinner party, Aunt Isabel and Maria Clara
went to mass early: the former carefully carrying her glasses, so that
she might be able to read "The Anchor of Salvation" during communion;
the latter beautifully dressed, carrying her rosary of blue beads
as a bracelet. The priest had scarcely left the altar when, to the
disgust and surprise of her good aunt, who thought that her niece was
as pious and as fond of prayer as a nun, the young girl desired to go
home. After a great deal of grumbling, the old lady crossed herself
several times, and the two arose to leave. "Never mind," said Maria,
to cut off the scolding, "the good God will pardon me. He ought to
understand the heart of a girl better than you, Aunt Isabel."

After breakfast, Maria Clara occupied herself with some embroidery
while her aunt bustled about with a duster removing the traces of
the social event of the preceding evening. Captain Tiago was busy
examining some papers.

Every noise in the street and every passing carriage made the girl
tremble with anxiety and wish that she were again back in the convent
among her friends. There, she thought, she could see him without
trembling and with perfect equanimity.

"I believe, Maria, that the doctor is right," said Captain Tiago. "You
ought to go to the provinces. You are looking very pale and need a
change of air. How does Malabon strike you, or San Diego?"

At the mere mention of the latter name, Maria Clara blushed and was
unable to speak.

"Now, you and Isabel go to the convent to get your things and say
good bye to your friends," continued the Captain, without raising
his head. "You will not return there. And in four or five days, when
your clothes are ready we shall go to Malabon. --Your godfather,
by the way, is not in San Diego at present. The priest whom you saw
here last night, that young fellow, is now the priest in the town. He
is a saint."

"I think you will find San Diego better, cousin," said Aunt
Isabel. "Our house there is better than the one in Malabon, and
besides, it is nearly time for the fiesta to take place."

Maria Clara was about to embrace her aunt for these welcome words,
but just then a carriage stopped in front of the house and the young
girl suddenly turned pale.

"That's so," said the Captain, and then, in a changed tone, exclaimed,
"Don Crisostomo!"

Maria Clara let fall the work which she was holding in her hands. A
nervous trembling passed over her. Then steps were heard on the stairs
and presently a young, manly voice. And, as if this voice had some
magic power, the girl shook off her emotion, started to run, and hid
herself in the oratory. Both father and aunt had to laugh at this,
and even Ibarra heard the closing of the door behind her.

Pale and panting, the girl finally subdued her emotion and began to
listen. She could hear his voice, that voice which for so long a time
she had heard only in her dreams. Beside herself with joy, she kissed
the nearest saint, which, by the way, happened to be San Antonio,
the abbot. Happy saint! Whether alive or carved in wood, always
tempted in the most charming manner! Becoming quite herself again,
she looked about for some crack through which she might get a peep
at the young man. Finally, when he came in range of the key-hole and
she again saw his fine features, her face beamed with smiles. In fact,
the sight filled her with such joy that when her aunt came to call her,
Maria Clara fell on the old lady's neck and kissed her repeatedly.

"You goose! What is the matter with you?" the old lady was finally
able to ask, after wiping away her tears.

Maria Clara, in her modesty, covered her face with her round arm.

"Come! Hurry up and get yourself ready!" said the old lady in an
affectionate tone. "While he is talking with your father about you----
Come, do not waste time!"

The girl did not respond, but allowed herself to be picked up like
a child and carried to her room.

Captain Tiago and Ibarra were talking earnestly when at last Aunt
Isabel appeared, half dragging her niece by the hand. At first the
girl looked in every direction but at the persons present. At last,
however, her eyes met Ibarra's.

The conversation of the young lovers was at first confined to the
usual trifling remarks, those pleasant little things which, like the
boasts of European nations, are enjoyable and interesting to those
who are concerned and understand them, but ridiculous to outsiders.

Finally, she, like all sisters of Cain, was moved by jealously and
asked: "Have you always thought of me? Have you never forgotten
me in your many travels among so many great cities and among such
beautiful women?"

And he, a true brother of Cain, dodged the issue, and, being something
of a diplomat, answered: "Could I forget you?" And then, gazing into
her deep, dark eyes, "Could I break a sacred vow? Do you remember that
stormy night when you, seeing me in tears beside my dead mother, came
to me and placed your hand--that hand which I have not touched for
so long--upon my shoulder, and said: 'You have lost your mother,--I
never had one.' And then you wept with me. You loved my mother, and
she loved you as only a mother can love a daughter. It was raining
then, you will remember, and the lightning flashed, but I seemed
to hear music and to see a smile on the face of my dead mother.--O,
if my parents were only living and could see you now!--That night I
took your hand and, joining it with my mother's, I swore always to
love you and make you happy, no matter what fate Heaven might have
in store for me. I have never regretted that vow, and now renew it."

"Since the day that I bade you good-bye and entered the convent,"
she answered, smiling, "I have always remembered you, and have never
forgotten you in spite of the commands of my confessor, who imposed
severe penances on me. I remembered the little games we used to play
together and our little quarrels. When we were children you used to
find in the river the most beautiful shells for our games of siklot
and the finest and most beautifully colored stones for our game of
sinkat. You were always very slow and stupid and lost, but you always
paid the forfeit, which I gave you with the palm of my hand. But I
always tried to strike lightly, for I was sorry for you. You always
cheated, even more than I, in the game of chouka and we generally
quarrelled over it. Do you remember that time when you really became
angry? Then you made me suffer, but when I found that I had no one to
quarrel with, we made peace immediately. We were still children when
we went with your mother one day to bathe in the stream under the
shade of the reeds. Many flowers and plants grew on the bank of the
river, and you used to tell me their strange Latin and Spanish names,
for you were then studying at the Athenæum. I paid little attention,
but amused myself by chasing butterflies and in trying to catch the
little fish which slipped away from me so easily among the rocks and
weeds of the shore. You suddenly disappeared from sight, but when
you returned you brought a wreath of orange flowers and placed it on
my head. On our way home, as the sun was hot, I collected some sage
leaves from the side of the road for you to put into your hat and
thus prevent headache. Then you laughed, we made up, and came the
remainder of the way home hand in hand."

Ibarra smiled as he listened attentively to every detail of the
story. Opening his pocket book, he took out a paper in which he had
wrapped some withered but fragrant sage leaves. "Your sage leaves,"
said he in answer to her questioning glance. "The only thing you have
ever given me."

She, in turn, drew a little, white satin bag from the bosom of her
dress. "Stop!" she said, tapping his hand with her own. "You must
not touch it; it is a letter of farewell."

"The one that I wrote you before leaving?"

"My dear sir, have you ever written any other?"

"And what did I say then?"

"Many falsehoods; excuses of a bad debtor," replied she, smiling
and showing how agreeable these falsehoods had been to her. "But be
quiet! I will read it to you, but I will omit your polite speeches
out of consideration for your feelings."

Raising the paper to the height of her eyes, in order to conceal her
face, she began. "'My----,' I shall not read you what follows that,
for it is not true." She ran her eyes over some lines and began to read
again: "'My father wishes me to go away, in spite of my entreaties. He
says that I am a man and must think of my future and my duty; that I
must learn how to live, which I cannot do in my own country, so that in
the future I may be of some use. He says that if I remain at his side,
in his shadow, in this atmosphere of business, I will never learn how
to look ahead, and that when he is gone, I shall be like the plant
of which our poet Baltazar speaks--as it always lives in the water,
it never learns how to endure a moment's heat.--He reproached me
because I wept, and his reproach hurt me so that I confessed that I
loved you. My father stopped, thought a moment and, placing his hand
on my shoulder, said in a trembling voice: "Do you think that you
alone know how to love, that your father does not love you, and that
his heart is not pained at being separated from you? It is a short
time since your mother died, and I am already reaching that age when
the help and counsel of youth are needed. And yet I consent to your
going, not even knowing that I shall ever see you again. The future is
opening to you, but closing to me. Your loves are being born; mine are
dying. Fire blazes in your blood, but cold is gradually finding its
way into mine. And yet you weep, and are not willing to sacrifice the
present for a future useful to yourself and your country." The eyes of
my father filled with tears and I fell upon my knees at his feet and
embraced him. I asked his pardon and said that I was willing to go.'"

The emotion which Ibarra manifested put an end to the reading. As
pale as death, he arose and began to walk nervously from one side to
the other.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

"You have made me forget that I have duties to perform, and that I
ought to leave immediately for my town. To-morrow is the fiesta in
memory of the dead."

Maria Clara stopped and silently fixed her large and dreamy eyes upon
him for some minutes. Then taking some flowers from a vase near by,
she said with emotion: "Go! I do not wish to detain you. We shall see
each other again in a few days. Place these flowers on the graves of
your father and mother."

A few moments later, Ibarra descended the stairs, accompanied by
Captain Tiago and Doña Isabel, while Maria Clara locked herself up
in the oratory.

"Do me the favor to tell Andeng to get the house ready, and that
Maria and Isabel are coming. A pleasant journey!" While the Captain
was saying this, Ibarra got into the carriage and drove off in the
direction of the Plaza of San Gabriel.

A few minutes later the Captain shouted to Maria Clara, who was weeping
by the side of the image of the Virgin: "Hurry up and light two peseta
candles in honor of San Roque and another in honor of San Rafael, the
patron saint of travellers. And light the lamp of Our Lady of Peace
and Protector of Travellers, for there are many bandits about. It is
better to spend four reales for wax and six cuartos for oil than to
have to pay a big ransom later on."






CHAPTER VI

THINGS PHILIPPINE.


Father Dámaso drove up in front of Captain Tiago's house and the
Franciscan stepped to the ground just as Aunt Isabel and Maria Clara
were getting into their silver-trimmed carriage. They saluted Father
Dámaso, and he, in his preoccupation, gently patted Maria Clara on
the cheek.

"Where are you going?" the friar asked.

"To the convent to get my things," replied the younger.

"Ah, ha! Ah, ha! We'll see who is the stronger. We'll see!" he muttered
and turned away, leaving the two women in wonder as to what it all
meant. The friar stepped along lightly, and reaching the stairs,
went up.

"He must be studying his sermon," said Isabel. "Get in, Maria; we
shall be late."

Whether Father Dámaso was studying his sermon or not we cannot say. At
any rate, he was absorbed in some important matter, for he even forgot
to extend his hand to Captain Tiago upon entering, greatly to the
embarrassment of the Captain, who had to feign kissing it.

"Santiago, we have some very important matters to talk over; let us
go to your office."

The Captain, somewhat disturbed, was unable to reply, but he obeyed
and followed the big priest into his office. Father Dámaso shut the
door behind them.

While they are conferring in secret, let us find out what has
become of Brother Sibyla. The wise Dominican was not to be found at
his parochial residence, for early, immediately after mass, he had
gone to the Dominican convent, situated near the gate called Isabel
the Second or Magallanes, according to which family is in power in
Madrid. Paying no attention to the delicious odor of chocolate or
to the rattling of money boxes and coins in the treasurer's office,
and scarcely answering the deferential salute of the treasurer, Father
Sibyla went upstairs, crossed several corridors and rapped on a door.

"Come in!" answered a voice.

"May God give back health to Your Reverence!" was the greeting of
the young Dominican as he entered.

A very feeble old priest was seated in a large arm-chair. His
complexion was as yellow as the saints which Revera paints; his eyes
were sunk deep in their orbits, and his heavy eyebrows, which were
nearly always knit in a frown, added to the brilliant glare of his
death-foreboding eyes.

"I have come to talk to you about the charge with which you have
entrusted me," said Father Sibyla.

"Ah, yes. And what about it?"

"Pshaw!" answered the young man with disgust, seating himself and
turning his face away with disdain. "They have been telling us a
lot of lies. Young Ibarra is a prudent boy. He does not seem to be
a fool. I think he is a pretty good sort of a chap."

"Do you think so?"

"Hostilities began last night."

"So soon? And how did it come about?"

Father Sibyla related briefly what had taken place between Father
Dámaso and Crisostomo Ibarra.

"Furthermore," he added, in conclusion, "the young man is going to
marry that daughter of Captain Tiago, who was educated in the college
of our sisters. He is rich and would not want to make any enemies
who might cause the loss of his happiness and his fortune."

The sick man bowed his head as a sign of assent. "Yes, that is my
opinion. With such a wife and such a father-in-law we can hold him
body and soul. And if not, it will be all the better for us if he
declares himself our enemy."

Father Sibyla looked at the old man with surprise.

"That is to say, for the good of our whole corporation," he added,
breathing with difficulty. "I prefer open attacks to the foolish
praise and adulations of friends, for, the truth is, flattery is
always paid for."

"Does Your Reverence think so?"

The old man looked at him sadly. "Always bear this in mind," he
answered, panting with fatigue, "that our power will endure as long
as it is believed in. If they attack us, the Government says, 'They
attack them, because they see in them an obstacle to their liberty,
therefore let us preserve them.'"

"And if the Government gives them a hearing? Sometimes the
Government----"

"The Government will do no such thing."

"Nevertheless, if some bold and reckless man, impelled by covetousness,
should dare to think that he wanted our possessions----"

"Then, woe to him!"

For a moment both remained silent.

"Furthermore," continued the sick man, "it will do us good to have
them attack us and wake us up. It would show us our weaknesses and
strengthen us. The exaggerated praises which we get deceive us,
and put us asleep. We are becoming ridiculous and on the day that we
become ridiculous we shall fall as we fell in Europe. Money will no
longer flow into our churches, no one will longer buy our scapularies
or girdles, and when we cease to be rich we shall no longer possess
the great influence which we wield at present."

"Pshaw! We shall always have our property, our plantations----"

"We shall lose them all as we lost them in Europe. And the worst
of it is that we are working for our own ruin. For instance, this
immeasurable ambition to raise the incomes from our lands each year,
this eagerness to increase the rents, which I have always opposed
in vain, this eagerness will be our ruin. The natives already find
themselves forced to buy land in other localities if they want lands
as good as ours. I fear that we are degenerating. 'Whom the gods would
destroy they first make mad.' For this reason we should not be too hard
on the people, for they are already grumbling under our exactions. You
have considered well. Let us leave this thing to others, and keep up
the prestige which we have and let us endeavor to appear before God
with clean hands. May the God of pity have mercy on our weaknesses!"

"So you believe that the tax or tribute----"

"Let us talk no more of money!" interrupted the sick man with
disgust. "You were saying that the lieutenant and Father Dámaso
last night----"

"Yes, Father," answered the young priest smiling. "But this morning I
saw the lieutenant again and he told me that he was sorry for what had
occurred at the dinner. He said he thought that he had been affected by
too much wine and that the same was true of Father Dámaso. 'And your
boast to tell the Governor?' I asked jokingly. 'Father,' he answered,
'I know when to make my word good so long as it does not stain my
honor. That is just the reason why I wear only two stars.'"

After talking over several minor matters, Father Sibyla took his leave.

As a matter of fact the lieutenant had not gone to the Governor
General's palace in Melacañan with any report in regard to the
occurrence of the preceding evening. However, the Governor General
had learned of it through another source, and discussing the matter
with one of his aides, he said:

"A woman and a priest can give no offense. I intend to live peaceably
while I remain in this country and I do not wish to have any trouble
with men who wear skirts. And, furthermore, I have found out that
the Father Provincial has evaded my orders in this matter. I asked
for the removal of that friar as a punishment. What was done? They
removed him, but they gave him another and much better town. 'Tricks
of the friars,' as they say in Spain."

But when His Excellency found himself alone he ceased to
smile. "Ah!" he sighed, "if the people were not so stupid they would
put a limit to their reverences. But every people deserves its fate,
and we are no different in this respect from the rest of the world."

Meanwhile Captain Tiago had concluded his conference with Father
Dámaso, or rather Father Dámaso had concluded it.

"I have already warned you!" said the Franciscan on taking his
leave. "You could have avoided all of this had you consulted with
me before, and, if you had not lied to me, when I asked you about
it. See to it that you do not do any more such foolish things, and
have faith in your godfather."

Captain Tiago took two or three steps towards the sala, meditating
and sighing. All at once, as if some good idea had struck him, he
ran to the oratory and put out the candles and the lamps which had
been lighted for Ibarra's protection.

"There is still time enough," he murmured, "for he has a long road
to travel."






CHAPTER VII

SAN DIEGO AND ITS PEOPLE.


Not far from the shores of the Laguna de Bay lies the town of San
Diego, surrounded by fertile fields and rice plantations. It exports
sugar, rice, coffee, and fruits, or sells them at ridiculously low
prices to the Chinese, who make large profits out of the credulity
and vices of the laborers.

When the sky was serene and the atmosphere clear, the boys used
to climb to the very peak of the old moss and vine covered church
tower. And what exclamations they would utter when, from that high
pinnacle, they looked out at the beautiful panorama that surrounded
them. There before them lay a great mass of roofs, some nipa, some
thatch, some zinc and some made out of the native grasses. And out of
that mass, which here and there gave way to an orchard or a garden,
every one of those boys could find his own little home, his own
little nest. To them everything was a landmark; every tamarind tree
with its light foliage, every cocoanut tree with its load of nuts,
every bending cane, every bonga tree, every cross. Beyond the town is
the crystal river, like a serpent asleep on a carpet of green. Here
and there, its tranquil surface is broken by rocks projecting from
its sandy bottom. In places, it is hemmed in between two high banks,
and there the rapidly rushing waters turn and twist the half-bared
roots of the overhanging shade trees. But further on it spreads itself
out again and becomes calm and peaceful.

But what always attracts attention is a peninsula of forest projecting
into this sea of cultivated land. There can be found hollow-trunked
trees, a century old, trees which die only when struck by lightning
and set on fire. They say, also, that even in that case the fire never
spreads to any other tree. This old grove is held in a certain degree
of awe, for around it have been woven many strange legends. Of these
the most probable, and consequently the least known and believed is
the following:

When the town was still a miserable group of huts, when weeds grew
in abundance in the so-called streets, and deer and wild boar roamed
about at night, there arrived one day an old Spaniard. His eyes were
deep and thoughtful and he spoke Tagalog fluently. After visiting
the different estates and peddling out some goods he inquired for
the owners of this grove, which by the way, also contained several
hot water springs. A number of persons claiming to be the owners
presented themselves, and the old man purchased from them the grove,
paying in exchange some money, jewelry and clothing. A short time
afterward he disappeared, no one knew where.

His sudden disappearance made the people think for a time that he
had been spirited away, but later on a fetid odor was noticeable
near the grove, and some shepherds, upon investigation, found the
body of the old man in a badly decomposed condition hanging from the
limb of a balitî tree. When alive the old man had terrorized many by
his deep and resonant voice, his sunken eyes and his silent laugh,
but now that he was dead, and a suicide at that, the mere mention
of his name gave the town women nightmare. Some of them threw the
jewelry that they had bought from him into the river and burned all
the clothing, and, for a long time after the body had been buried
at the foot of the balitî tree, no one cared to venture near it. All
sort of stories became current about the haunted place.

A shepherd, looking for his flock, said that he had seen lights in the
grove. A party of young men, passing near the place, heard groans and
lamentations. An unfortunate lover, in order to make an impression on
the disdainful object of his affections, promised to spend a night
under the tree and to bring her a branch from its trunk, but on the
next day he was taken ill with a quick fever and died.

Before many months had passed, a youth came to the town one day. He
was apparently a Spanish mestizo, declared himself the son of the
dead stranger, and established himself in that far-off corner of the
world. He began to farm the land and devoted himself especially to
the cultivation of indigo. Don Saturnino was a taciturn young man,
violent and sometimes cruel, but very active and industrious. He
built a wall around his father's grave and, from time to time, went
all alone to visit it. A few years later he married a young girl from
Manila who bore him a son, Rafael, the father of Crisostomo.

Don Rafael, from his earliest youth, was fond of farming. Under his
care, the agriculture which had been started and fostered by his father
was rapidly developed. New inhabitants flocked to the vicinity, and
among them were a great many Chinese. The village grew very fast and
was soon supporting a native priest. After it had become a pueblo,
the native priest died and Father Dámaso took his place.

Still the grave and the adjoining lands were respected. At times,
children, armed with sticks and stones, ventured to wander about,
exploring the surrounding country and gathering guayabas, papays,
lomboy and other native fruits. Then, all of a sudden, while they were
busily engaged collecting the fruits, some one would catch a glimpse of
the old rope hanging from the balitî tree, and stones would be heard to
fall. Then some one would cry, "The old man!" "The old man!" Dropping
fruit, sticks and stones, and leaping from the trees, the boys would
flee in all directions through the thickets and between the rocks,
not stopping until they emerged from the grove, pale and panting,
some laughing, some crying.

You could not say that Don Rafael, while alive, was the most
influential man in San Diego, although it is true that he was the
richest, owned the most land, and had put almost everybody else
under obligations to him. He was modest and always belittled his
own deeds. He never tried to form a party of his own, and, as we
have already seen, no one came to his aid when his fortune seemed to
fail him.

Whenever Captain Tiago arrived in town, his debtors received him with
an orchestra, gave him a banquet, and loaded him down with gifts. If
a deer or a wild boar was caught he always had a quarter of it for
his own table; if any of his debtors found a beautiful horse, within
a half hour it would be in the Captain's stable. All of this is true,
but still when the Captain had his back turned they made fun of him
and referred to him as Sacristan Tiago.

The gobernadorcillo [4] was an unhappy fellow who never commanded but
always obeyed; he never attacked any one, but was always attacked;
he never ordered anybody, but everybody ordered him; and besides, he
had to take the responsibility for everything that they had commanded,
ordered or disposed. The position had cost him five thousand pesos
and many humiliations, but, considering the profits he made, the
price was very cheap.

San Diego was like Rome; not the Rome of the time of Romulus, when
he marked out the walls with a plough, nor when, later, he bathed
in his own blood and that of others and dictated laws to the world:
no, San Diego was like the Rome of contemporaneous history, with this
difference--instead of being a city of marble, monuments and coliseums,
it was a city of saualî [5] and cock-pits. The parochial priest of
San Diego corresponded to the Pope in the Vatican; the alferez [6]
of the Civil Guard to the King of Italy in the Quirinal, but both
in the same proportion as the sauali or native wood and the nipa
cock-pits corresponded to the monuments of marble and coliseums. And
in San Diego, as in Rome, there was continual trouble. Everybody
wanted to be the leading señor, and there was always some one else
in the way. Let us describe two of these ambitious citizens.

Friar Bernando Salvi was the young and silent Franciscan whom we
mentioned in a preceding chapter. He had even more of the customs
and manners of his brotherhood than had his predecessor, the violent
Father Dámaso. He was slender, sickly, almost always pensive, and very
strict in the fulfillment of his religious duties as well as very
careful of his good name. A month after his arrival in the parish
almost all the inhabitants became brothers of the "Venerable Third
Order," to the great grief of its rival, "The Brotherhood of the Most
Sacred Rosary." His heart leaped with joy at seeing on every neck in
the town from four to five scapularies, a knotted cord around every
waist, and every funeral procession dressed in habits of guingon. The
sacristan mayor or head warden of the order made quite a little capital
by selling and giving away all those things considered necessary to
save the soul and overcome the devil.

The only enemy of this powerful soul saver, with tendencies in accord
with the times, was, as we have already stated, the alferez. The women
relate a story of how the devil tried one day to tempt Father Salvi
and how the latter caught him, tied him to the bed post, whipped
him with a lash and kept him tied fast for nine days. Thus he had
been able to conquer the devil entirely. As a result, any one who
persisted in being an enemy of the priest was generally considered a
worse man than the devil himself--an honor which the alferez alone
enjoyed. But he merited this reputation. He had a wife, an old,
powdered and painted Filipino by the name of Doña Consolación. The
husband and several other people called her by a different name,
but that does not matter. Anyway, the alferez was accustomed to drown
the sorrows of unhappy wedlock by getting as drunk as a toper. Then,
when he was thoroughly intoxicated he would order his men to drill
in the sun, he himself remaining in the shade, or, perhaps, he would
occupy himself in beating his wife.

When her husband was dead drunk, or was snoring away in a siesta,
and Doña Consolación could not fight with him, then, wearing a blue
flannel shirt, she would seat herself in the window, with a cigar
in her mouth. She had a dislike of children and so from her window
she would scowl and make faces at every girl that passed. The girls,
on the other hand, were afraid of her, and would hurry by at a quick
pace, never daring to raise their eyes or draw a breath. But say what
you may, Doña Consolación had one great virtue; she was never known
to look into a mirror.

These were the leading people of San Diego.

Toward the west of San Diego, surrounded by rice fields, lies a village
of the dead. A single, narrow path, dusty on dry days, and navigable
by boats when it rains, leads thither from the town. A wooden gate,
and a fence, half stone and half bamboo, seem to separate the cemetery
from the people in the town, but not from the goats and sheep of the
parochial priest of the immediate vicinity. These animals go in and
out to rummage among the tombs or to make that solitary place glad
with their presence.

One day a little old man entered the cemetery, his eyes sparkling and
his head uncovered. Upon seeing him, many laughed, while a number of
the women knit their eyebrows in scorn. The old man seemed to take
no notice of these manifestations, but went directly toward a pile
of skulls, knelt down and began to search among the bones. After he
had sorted over with considerable care the skulls one by one, he drew
his eyebrows together, as though he did not find what he was looking
for, moved his head from side to side, looked in all directions,
and finally got up and went over toward a grave-digger.

"Eh, there!" he shouted to him.

The grave-digger raised his head.

"Do you know where that beautiful skull is, the one white as the meat
of a cocoanut, with a complete set of teeth, which I had over there
at the foot of the cross under those leaves?"

The grave-digger shrugged his shoulders.

"Look you!" added the little old man, bringing out of his pocket a
handful of silver. "I have more than that, but I will give it to you
if you find the skull for me."

The glitter of the coin made the grave-digger reflect. He looked
over in the direction of the bone pile and said: "Isn't it over
there? No? Then I don't know where it is."

"Don't you know? When my debtors pay me, I will give you more,"
continued the old man. "It was my wife's skull, and if you find it
for me----"

"Isn't it there. Then I don't know where it is," repeated the
grave-digger with emphasis. "But I will give you another."

"You are like the grave that you are digging," cried the old man
irritably. "You don't know the value of what you lose. For whom is
this grave?"

"For a dead person, of course," replied the bad-humored man.

"Like a tomb! Like a tomb!" repeated the old man dryly. "You don't
know what you throw out nor what you swallow. Dig! dig!"

At this the old man, who was Tasio, the village philosopher, turned
and started toward the gate.

In the meantime, the grave-digger had finished his job, and two
little mounds of fresh, red clay were piled on either side of the
grave. He took some betel nut out of his broad-brimmed hat, and began
to chew away, looking with an air of stupidity at everything within
his horizon.






CHAPTER VIII

IBARRA AND THE GRAVE-DIGGER.


Just as the old man was leaving the cemetery, a carriage stopped at the
entrance. It looked as though it had made a long journey; the horses
were sweating and the vehicle was covered with dust. Ibarra stepped out
and was followed by an old servant. He made a gesture to the driver and
then turned down the path into the cemetery. He was silent and grave.

"My sickness and my work have not permitted me to return, since the
day of the funeral," said the old servant timidly. "Captain Tiago said
that he would see to it that a niche was arranged for, but I planted
some flowers on the grave and erected a cross made by my own hands."

Ibarra did not reply.

"Right there behind that large cross, señor," continued the servant,
making a gesture toward one of the corners just as they passed through
the gate.

Ibarra was so preoccupied with sad thoughts that he did not notice the
astonishment which some of the people in the cemetery manifested when
they saw him enter. Those who were kneeling broke off their prayers
and followed the young man, their eyes full of curiosity.

Ibarra walked along very carefully, and avoided stepping on the graves,
which could be easily distinguished by the sunken ground. In other
times he had walked over them; but to-day he respected them. His father
lay in one of them. On coming to the other side of the large cross,
he stopped and looked in all directions. His companion was confused
and out of countenance. He searched for marks on the ground but could
not find the cross anywhere.

"Is it here?" he murmured between his teeth. "No, it is over there,
but the earth has been removed."

Ibarra looked at him with an expression of anguish.

"Yes," he continued. "I remember that there was a stone by the side of
the grave. The grave was a little short, a farm hand had to dig it,
as the grave-digger was sick at the time, but we will ask him what
he has done with the cross."

They turned toward the grave-digger, who looked at them with
curiosity. He saluted them, taking off his hat.

"Can you tell us which of the graves over there is the one which had
a cross?" asked the servant.

The grave-digger looked toward the place and seemed to reflect. "A
large cross?"

"Yes, a large cross," answered the old man with joy, looking
significantly at Ibarra, whose face was somewhat animated.

"An ornamented cross, and fastened with reeds?" repeated the
grave-digger, questioning the servant.

"That's it, that's it, yes, yes! Like this, like this," and the
servant traced an outline of a Byzantine cross.

"And were there some flowers sown on the grave?"

"Adelphas, sampagas and pansies! That's it," added the servant,
delighted, and offering the grave-digger a cigar. "Tell us where the
grave is and where the cross."

The grave-digger scratched his ear and replied, yawning: "Well,
the cross--I have already burned it up."

"Burned it? and why have you burned it?"

"Because the head priest so ordered."

"Who is the head priest?" asked Ibarra.

"Who? The one who does the whipping."

Ibarra put his hand to his head.

"But you can at least tell us where the grave is? You ought to
remember."

The grave-digger smiled. "The body is no longer there," he replied
tranquilly.

"What do you say?"

"Yes, no longer," the man added in a joking tone. "Only a week ago
I buried a woman in its place."

"Are you crazy?" the servant asked. "Why, it is not yet a year since
we buried him."

"Then that is the one, for it was many months ago that I took up the
body. The head priest of the parish ordered me to do it, in order
to bury it in the Chinese cemetery. But as it was heavy and it was
raining that night----"

The man could not finish. He stepped back, half frightened at the
expression on Crisostomo's face. Ibarra made a rush at him, and,
grabbing him by the arm, shook him.

"And what did you do?" the young man asked, in an indescribable tone.

"Honored sir, do not get angry," he replied, pale and trembling. "I
did not bury the body among the Chinese. In my opinion a person might
better be a suicide than be buried among the Chinese. I threw the
body into the lake."

Ibarra laid both his hands on the man's shoulders and looked at him
for a long time in a terrifying manner. "You are only an unfortunate
fellow," he said, at last, and left the place on a run across bones,
graves, and crosses, like a madman.

The grave-digger felt of his arm and murmured: "What would they do
with the dead! The head priest whips me with his cane for having left
the body in the cemetery when I was sick. Now this fellow comes along
and nearly breaks my arm for having taken it up. That is just like
the Spaniards! I'll lose my place yet."

Ibarra went on in great haste, keeping his eyes fixed in the
distance. The old servant followed him, crying. Already the sun was
hidden; a large, dark cloud hung over the western horizon; and a dry
wind bent the tops of the trees and made the fields of sugar cane
groan. With hat in hand, he went on. Not one tear dropped from his
eye, not one sigh came from his breast. He hurried on as if he were
fleeing from somebody, or something--perhaps the shade of his father,
perhaps the tempest which was approaching. He hurried through the town
and headed toward the outlying country, toward that old house which
he had not entered for so many years. The house was surrounded by a
wall, near which many cacti grew, and as he approached they seemed to
signal to him. The windows seemed to open, the ilang-ilang joyfully
waved its branches, and the doves fluttered about the little tower
on the peak of their garden house.

But the young man did not notice these signs of welcome on his return
to his old home. His eyes were riveted on the form of a priest who
was advancing from the opposite direction. It was the priest of San
Diego, that meditative Franciscan, the enemy of the alferez whom we
have mentioned. The wind was playing with the wide wings of his hat,
and the robe of guingon was flattened out, moulded by the wind to
the outline of his form, marking his slender thighs and bow-legs. In
his right hand he carried a cane. It was the first time that he and
Ibarra had met.

As they approached each other, the young man stopped and looked
at him fixedly. Father Salvi avoided the look and was somewhat
distracted. This vacillation lasted only a moment. Ibarra made a rush
toward him, and stopped the priest from falling only by grasping his
shoulder. Then, in a voice scarcely intelligible, he exclaimed:

"What have you done with my father?"

Friar Salvi, pale and trembling, as he read the unmistakable sentiments
which were depicted on the young man's face, could not reply.

"What have you done with my father?" he asked again, his voice almost
choking him.

The priest, shrinking from the tight grasp of Ibarra's hand, at last
made a great effort and said: "You are mistaken. I have done nothing
with your father."

"What? No?" continued the young man, the weight of his hand on the
priest's shoulder almost making him kneel.

"No, I assure you. It was my predecessor. It was Father Dámaso----"

"Ah!" exclaimed the young man, throwing the priest down and giving
him a slap in the face. And leaving Father Salvi, he turned quickly
and went toward the house.






CHAPTER IX

ADVENTURES OF A SCHOOL TEACHER.


Laguna de Bay, surrounded by mountains, sleeps tranquilly in the
stillness of the elements, as if it had not joined the chorus of
the tempest on the night before. As first rays of dawn appear in the
eastern sky and awaken the phosphorescent myriads in the water, long,
grey shadows appear in the dim distance, almost on the border of the
horizon. They are shadows of fishermen's boats at work drawing in
the nets.

Two men, dressed in deep mourning, from a lofty height contemplate
the scene in silence. One is Ibarra, and the other is a young,
meek-looking man with a melancholy countenance.

"Here is the place!" said the latter. "Here is where your father's
body was thrown into the water! The grave-digger brought Lieutenant
Guevara and me here and pointed out the spot."

Ibarra, with emotion, warmly grasped the young man's hand.

"You need not thank me!" replied the latter. "I owed your father for
many favors he did me. The only thing I could ever do for him was
to accompany his body to the grave. I had come to the town without
knowing anybody, without any recommendations, without a reputation,
without money, just as I am now. Your father protected me, procured a
house for me, helped secure whatever was needed to advance education;
he used to come to the school and distribute pennies among the poor
and diligent pupils; he provided them with books and papers. But that,
like all good things, did not last long."

Ibarra took off his hat and seemed to pray for a short time. Then
he turned to his companion and said: "Did you tell me that my father
used to help the poor children? How is it now?"

"Oh, now they do the best they can."

"And don't they come to school regularly?"

"No, for their shirts are ragged and they are ashamed."

Ibarra kept silent for a few moments.

"How many pupils have you now?" he asked, with a certain interest.

"There are more than two hundred on the register, but only twenty-five
in the class."

"How does that happen?"

The school teacher sadly smiled.

"It is a long and tedious story," said he.

"Don't think that I am asking out of vain curiosity," replied Ibarra,
looking seriously at the distant horizon. "I have been meditating a
great deal on the matter, and I believe that it is far better to try to
carry out the ideas of my father than to try to avenge him. His tomb
is sacred Nature; and his enemies were the people and the priest. I
can forgive the people for their ignorance, and as to the priest,
I will pardon his character because I wish to respect the religion
which he represents. I wish to be inspired with the spirit of the
one who gave me life, and, that I may lend my help, I wish to know
what are the obstacles here in the way of education."

"The country will bless your memory, Señor, if you can carry out
the beautiful and noble ideas of your dead father," said the school
teacher. "You wish to know what the obstacles are? Very well. We are
now in such circumstances that unless something powerful intervenes,
there will never be any education here. First, because there is no
incentive or stimulus to the children, and, secondly, even when there
is an incentive, lack of means and many prejudices kill it. They say
that the son of a German peasant studies eight years in the town
school. Who would want to spend half of that time in our schools,
when the benefits to be derived are so small? Here the children read,
and commit to memory verses and at times entire books in Spanish,
but all without understanding a single word. What good can the sons
of our farmers get out of the school so long as this is the case?"

"And you see the evil; have you not thought out a remedy?"

"Ah, poor me!" replied the teacher, shaking his head, "a poor
teacher cannot alone fight against prejudices, against existing
influences. Above all, I would need to have a school house, so that
I would not, as I do now, have to teach from the priest's carriage,
under the convent. There, when the children want to read aloud, they
naturally disturb the Father, who at times comes down and very nervous,
especially when he has his attacks, finds fault with the children and
insults me. You know very well that under such conditions no one can do
any teaching. The child does not respect the teacher from that moment
when he sees him mistreated by some one else without maintaining his
rights. The teacher, if he is to be listened to, or if his authority
is not to be doubted, needs prestige, a good name, moral strength, and
a certain amount of freedom. If you will allow me, I will give you an
illustration. I wished to introduce some reforms and they laughed at
me. In order to remedy the evil that I spoke of a moment ago, I tried
to teach the children Spanish, because, not only does the Government
order it, but because it will be a great advantage for them to know
the language. I employed the simplest method, used simple phrases
and nouns without making use of hard rules, with the expectation of
teaching them the grammar as soon as they had learned the language. At
the end of several weeks, almost all the smarter ones in the school
understood me and were able to compose phrases in Castellano."

The teacher stopped and seemed to be in doubt. Then, as if he had
made up his mind, he began again.

"I ought not to be ashamed of the history of my grievances. If any one
had been in my place, he would have had the same story to tell. As I
was saying, I began well. Several days later the priest, who was then
Father Dámaso, sent the sacristan mayor to tell me that he wanted to
see me. As I knew his character and was afraid to make him wait for
me, I went up immediately, saluted him and said good morning to him in
Spanish. As was customary, when I saluted him, I advanced to kiss the
hand which he held out, but just at that moment he withdrew it and,
without replying to me, began to chuckle scoffingly. I was naturally
disconcerted, and it was all done in the presence of the sacristan
mayor. At the moment, I did not know what to say. I stood and looked
at him while he went on laughing. I had already become impatient
and saw that I was on the point of committing an indiscretion. All
of a sudden, he stopped laughing and added insult to injury. With a
cunning air, he said to me: 'So it is buenos dias, eh? buenos dias,
ha, ha! How funny! Why, you know how to speak Spanish, do you?' And
then he continued his laugh."

Ibarra could not keep back his smile.

"You laugh," replied the teacher, also smiling. "I confess that I did
not feel like smiling at that time. I felt the blood rush to my head,
and a thunderbolt seemed to dazzle my brain. I saw the priest far off,
very far from me. I started toward him to reply. The sacristan mayor
interposed and said very seriously, in Tagalog: 'You want to stop
wearing borrowed clothes. Be content to speak in your own language and
do not spoil Spanish, which is not meant for you. You have heard about
Ciruela? Well, Ciruela was a teacher who did not know how to read,
but he taught school.' I wanted to detain him for a moment, but he
went quickly into his room and closed the door violently. What was I
to do? In order to collect my salary I have to have the approval of
the priest on my bill, and have to make a journey to the capital of
the province. What could I do to him--the moral, political and civil
authority of the town, sustained by his corporation, feared by the
Government, rich, powerful, always consulting, advising, listening,
believing and attending to everything--what could I do to him? If
he insulted me, I had to keep my mouth closed. If I talked back,
he would throw me out of work, spoiling my career. And what good
would it do--education? On the contrary, everybody would take up the
priest's side of the matter; they would criticise me, they would call
me vain, proud, arrogant, a poor Christian, poorly educated, and when
not this, they would call me an anti-Spaniard and an agitator. The
school teacher should have no authority. He should only be lazy,
humble, and resigned to his low position. May God pardon me if I do not
speak conscientiously and truthfully, but I was born in this country,
I have to live, I have a mother to support and I have to be resigned
to my lot."

"And have you continued to be discouraged on account of this
trouble? Have you attempted nothing since?"

"Would to God that it had ended there!" he replied. "Would to God that
that had been the end of my misfortunes. The truth is that from that
day I began to take a dislike to my profession. Every day the school
brought to my mind my disgrace and made every hour a bitter one for
me. But what could I do? I could not disappoint my mother. I had to
tell her that the three years of sacrifices which she had made for me
in order that I might learn the profession now made me happy. I had
to make her believe that the profession was a most honorable one, that
the work was most pleasant, that the road was strewn with flowers and
that the fulfillment of my duty produced nothing but friendships. If
I had told her the contrary, I myself would still be as unhappy and
would only make another unhappy, which was not only useless but a
sin. So, I kept at my work and tried not to be discouraged. I tried
to fight it down."

The school teacher made a short pause and then began again.

"You know that the books in most of the schools are in Spanish,
excepting the Tagalog catechism, which varies according to the
corporation which appoints the priest of the parish. The books
generally used in the school are novenaries, the 'Doxology' and
Father Astete's catechism, which are no more edifying than the
books of heretics. On account of the fact that it was impossible to
teach the children Spanish, as I wanted to do, and owing to the fact
that I could not translate so many books into the native language,
I decided to try to substitute for them gradually, short verses,
extracts from the best Tagalog books, such as the 'Treatise on
Urbanity' by Hortensio y Feliza, and some of the little pamphlets on
agriculture. Sometimes I myself translated small works, such as the
'History of the Philippines,' by Father Barranera, and afterward
dictated to the pupils for their note books, adding at times some
of my own observations. As I had no maps to teach them geography,
I copied one of those of the province which I saw in the capital,
and with this reproduction and, by the aid of the tiles on the floor,
I was able to give them some ideas about the country. The new priest
sent for me. Although he did not reprimand me severely, he told me,
however, that my first duty was to teach religion, and that before I
began to teach any such things I must prove by an examination that all
the children knew by heart the 'Mysteries,' the 'Doxology,' and the
'Catechism of the Christian Doctrine.'

"So, in the meantime, I am endeavoring to convert the children into
parrots so that they will know by heart all of these things of which
they do not understand a single word. Many of the pupils already
know the 'Mysteries' and the 'Doxology,' but I fear that I am making
Father Astete's efforts useless, inasmuch as my pupils do not even
distinguish between the questions and the answers, or what either
of them signifies. Thus we shall die and thus shall do those who are
yet to be born; yet in Europe they talk about Progress!"

"Let us not be so pessimistic," replied Ibarra, rising to his
feet. "The teniente mayor has invited me to attend a town meeting to
be held in the tribunal. Who knows but that some plan for improvement
may there be adopted!"

The school teacher arose to go, shaking his head in token of doubt.






CHAPTER X

LIGHTS AND SHADOWS.


The people of the town have made their preparation for the festival in
honor of the patron saint, San Diego, and are gossiping about it, and
about the arrival of Maria Clara, accompanied by her aunt Isabel. They
rejoiced over it, because they liked her, and admired her beauty very
much. They also rejoiced in the change it had made in the priest,
Father Salvi. "He is often absent-minded during the holy services,"
they said. "He scarcely speaks with us, and he plainly grows more
thin and taciturn." His cook saw this constantly and complained of the
little honor that he did his dishes. But what most excited the wonder
of the people were the two lights which one could see shining in the
convent during the night, while Father Salvi was visiting at the house
of Maria Clara! The old dames crossed themselves and kept on gossiping.

Juan Crisostomo Ibarra had telegraphed from the capital of the province
his compliments to Aunt Isabel and her niece, but he had not explained
his absence. Many thought that he had been arrested for assaulting
Father Salvi on the afternoon of "All Saint's Day." But the comments
increased still more when, on the afternoon of the third day, they
saw Ibarra get out of a carriage in front of the little house of his
betrothed, and courteously salute the priest, who was also making
his way thither.

If we go to Maria Clara's house, we will find it like a little nest
among orange and ilang-ilang trees, surrounded by flowers and vines
which creep up on bamboo sticks and wires, diffusing their delicious
perfume. The rich fragrance of the ilang-ilang reaches even to
the window which looks out on the lake. Here sit the two young
lovers. Ibarra was saying to Maria Clara:

"To-morrow, before the first ray of morning, your desire shall be
fulfilled. To-night, I shall arrange all so that nothing will be
lacking."

"Then I will write to my friends, so that they may come along. Arrange
it so that the priest cannot come."

"And why?"

"Because he seems to be watching me. His deep and sombre eyes pain
me. When he fixes them upon me, they frighten me. He speaks to me of
extraordinary things, so incomprehensible, so strange. He asked me
once if I had not dreamed about my mother's letters. I believe he
is half crazy. My friend Sinang, and Andeng, my foster sister, say
that he is a little out of his head, for he neither eats nor bathes,
and he lives entirely in the darkness. Don't have him come!"

"We cannot but invite him," replied Ibarra. "The customs of the
country require it. He is the priest of your house and, besides, he has
conducted himself nobly toward me. When the Alcalde consulted him on
the business of which I have spoken to you, he had nothing but praises
for me and did not pretend to offer the slightest obstacle. But I see
that you are serious. I shall take care that he does not accompany
us in the boat."

Light steps were heard. They were those of the priest, who was
approaching with a forced smile on his lips. They began to talk of
different subjects, about the weather, the town and the festival. Maria
Clara devised an excuse and went out.

"And while we are speaking about festivals," said Ibarra, "allow me to
invite you to the one which we are going to celebrate to-morrow. It is
going to be a country picnic, which we and our friends are planning."

"And where will it be held?"

"The girls want to hold it near the brook in the woods, near the balitî
tree. So we will have to get up early to reach the place before the
sun gets hot."

The priest reflected, and a moment later replied: "The invitation
is very tempting, and I accept it in order to prove that I hold no
grudge against you for what has happened in the past. But I will have
to be a little late, as I must fulfill my religious duties first. How
happy to be like you, entirely free and independent!"

A few minutes later, Ibarra took his leave in order to arrange for
the picnic on the following day. It was already quite dark when he
left the house.






CHAPTER XI

THE FISHING PARTY.


The stars were still shining in the sapphire heavens, and the birds
were sleeping on the branches of the trees, when a jolly little party,
by the light from the pitch torches, wandered through the streets of
the town toward the lake.

Five young maidens, clinging to each other's hands or belts, tripped
along briskly. Behind them came several elderly women and a number
of servants gracefully carrying on their heads baskets filled with
provisions and various dishes for the picnic. On seeing their joyful
faces, with their youthful smiles, their beautiful black hair as it
floated in the breeze, and the wide folds of their pretty dresses,
you would have taken them for goddesses of the night and would have
thought that they were fleeing from day--if perchance you had not
already known that it was Maria Clara and her four friends: jolly
Sinang; her cousin, the serious Victoria; beautiful Iday; and the
pensive Neneng, pretty, modest and timid.

They were talking with animation; they laughed; pinched each other;
whispered in each other's ears and then burst out in shouts of
merriment.

"You girls will wake up everybody in town. Don't you know that people
are still asleep?" said Aunt Isabel, reprimanding them. "When we were
young, we didn't make such a noise."

"But you didn't get up as early as we do, nor were the old men such
great sleepers in your day," replied little Sinang.

They were quiet for a moment and were trying to talk in a low voice,
but they quickly forgot themselves and were again filling the streets
with their youthful laughter and melodious voices.

Several young fellows were coming down the street, lighting their way
with large bamboo torches. They were marching along almost noiselessly
to the tune of a guitar.

"That guitar sounds as though some beggar were playing it," said
Sinang, laughing. But when the young fellows caught up with the rest of
the party, the girls suddenly became as quiet and as serious as though
they never had learned how to laugh. The young men, however, chatted
away, saluted the ladies, laughed and smiled and asked half a dozen
questions without giving the girls time to answer any one of them.

The two large bancas, [7] which had been secured to transport the
picnic party to the fishing grounds, were fastened together and
picturesquely adorned with wreaths and garlands of flowers and a
large number of vari-colored candles. Paper lanterns hung from the
improvised covering of the bancas. Alternately with these were roses,
pinks and baskets of fruits such as pineapples, kasuys, bananas,
guayabas and lanzones. Ibarra had brought his carpets, blankets and
rugs and arranged comfortable seats for the ladies. The poles and
paddles used to propel the bancas had also been ornamented. In the
better banca were a harp, guitars, accordeons, and a buffalo horn;
while, in the other boat, a little fire had been lighted in an
improvised stove in order that tea, coffee and salabat [8] might be
prepared for the light breakfast.

"The women sit here; the men, there," said the mothers on stepping
into the banca. "Sit still and don't move, or we will be capsized."

"Cross yourselves before we start," said Aunt Isabel, as she traced
the form of a cross on her breast.

"And are we to be here all by ourselves," asked Sinang, on seeing how
the girls had been separated from the young men, by the assignment
of the seats. Then making a grimace she asked again, "Are we going
to be all alone? Aray!"

This aray was caused by a little pinch which her mother had given
her on the arm in the way of a reprimand for her complaint.

The bancas were now putting off slowly from the shore. The light
from the torches and Japanese lanterns was reflected in the water,
for the lake was as smooth as a mirror. In the far eastern horizon
could be seen the first rosy tints of the approaching dawn.

Everything was very quiet. The young women, in consequence of the
separation from the young men, seemed to be absorbed in meditation.

As the water was smooth as glass and the bamboo weirs where the fish
were to be found were not far off, and, it was still early, it was
decided that all should stop paddling and take breakfast. The lights
were put out, for the day had dawned and preparations were made for
desayuno. [9]

The entire party became jolly as they breathed in the light breeze
that had come up. Even the women, so full of presentiments a few
moments ago, were now laughing and joking among themselves.

One young man alone of all the party remained silent. He was the pilot,
an athletic-looking fellow, and interesting on account of his large,
sad eyes and the severe lines of his lips. His long, black hair fell
gracefully over his powerful neck. He wore a shirt of coarse dark
cloth, through which his powerful muscles could be plainly seen as he
manipulated with his strong arms the wide, heavy paddle as if it were
only a pen. This paddle served both to propel and to steer the bancas.

More than once he was embarrassed when he caught Maria Clara looking at
him. Then he would turn his eyes quickly to some other direction and
look far off toward the mountain, or the shore of the lake. The young
maiden pitied him in his solitude and offered him some biscuits. The
pilot looked at her with surprise, but only for a moment. He took
the biscuits, thanked her very briefly and in a voice scarcely audible.

No one else took any notice of him. The happy laughter and jolly
conversation of the young men did not cause him to relax a single
muscle of his face. Not even Sinang, with all her jollity, had any
effect on him.

"Wait a minute!" said Aunt Isabel to the boatman's son, who had made
ready his net and was just about to go up on the baklad to take out
the fish from the little enclosure at the end of the weir. "We must
have everything ready, so that the fish may pass directly from the
water to the pot."

Andeng, the pretty foster sister of Maria Clara, despite her clear
complexion and laughing face, had the reputation of being a good
cook. She prepared the rice, tomatoes, and camias, [10] while some
of the young men tried to aid or bother her, perhaps in order to win
her good will. The other girls were busy cleaning and making ready
the lettuce, cabbage and peas, and cutting up paayap in pieces about
the size of a cigarette.

Finally Andeng announced that the kettle was ready to receive its
guests--the fish.

The fisherman's son went up on top of the rack at the end of the
weir. He took a position at the narrow entrance, over which might have
been written: "All who enter here leave hope behind," if indeed the
unfortunate fish would know how to read and understand it, for a fish
who enters never gets out except to die. The rack is almost circular in
form and about a meter in diameter, and is so arranged that a man can
stand on top of one end of it and thus take out the fish with his net.

"There, it wouldn't tire me a bit to fish that way," said Sinang,
quite joyful.

All were watching attentively. Already some of them in their vivid
imaginations thought they could see the fish wiggling their tails
and trying to get out of the little net, their scales shining in the
bright sun. However, the young man failed to catch a single fish in
his first attempt.

"It ought to be full of fish," said Albino, in a low voice. "It is
more than five days since we visited the place last."

The fisherman drew out his net a second time, but not a fish was there
in it. The water, as it trickled through the meshes of the net in
countless drops which reflected the rays of the sun, seemed to laugh
in silvery tones. An "Ah" of surprise, disgust, and disappointment
escaped from the lips of all.

The young fellow repeated the same operation, but with a similar
result.

"You don't understand your business!" said Albino to him as he stepped
up on the rack and took the net from the hands of the youngster. "Now
you will see! Andeng, open up the kettle!"

But Albino did not understand his business, either. The net came up
empty as before. All began to laugh.

"Don't make any noise," he said, "or the fish will hear it and will
keep from being caught. This net must have a hole in it somewhere."

But every mesh in the net was perfect.

"Let me take it!" said Leon, Iday's lover, to Albino.

Leon first made sure that the enclosure was in good condition and
then examined the net carefully and satisfied himself that there was
nothing wrong with it. He then asked: "Are you sure that no one has
been out here for five days?"

"We are sure! The last time any one was out here was on All Saints'
Day."

"Well, then, I am going to bring out something this time, unless the
lake is bewitched."

Leon lowered the net by its bamboo handle into the water, but a look
of surprise was painted on his face. In silence he looked toward the
neighboring mountain and continued moving the handle of the net from
one side to the other. Finally, without taking the net out of the
water, he murmured in a low voice: "An alligator."

"An alligator!" exclaimed half a dozen voices, and the word was
repeated again while all stood frightened and stupefied.

"What did you say?" they asked.

"I say that there is an alligator caught in the rack," said Leon,
and sticking the handle of the net into the water again he continued:
"Do you hear that sound? That is not sand, it is hard skin, the back
of the alligator. Do you see how he wiggles the bamboo pickets in
the rack? He is struggling hard but he cannot do anything. Wait. He
is a large fellow; his body measures a palm or more in width."

"What shall be done?" was the question.

"Catch him," said one.

"Jesús! And who will catch him?"

Nobody offered to dive down to the bottom of the rack. The water was
very deep.

"We ought to tie him to our banca and drag him along in triumph,"
said Sinang. "The idea of his eating the fish which we ought to have!"

"I have never seen to this day a live alligator," said Maria Clara.

The pilot rose to his feet, took a long rope and went up cautiously to
the platform on the top of the rack. Leon gave up his position to him.

With the exception of Maria Clara, none up till now had paid any
attention to him. Now every one was admiring his fine stature.

To the great surprise of all and in spite of all their cries, the
pilot leaped into the enclosure.

"Take this knife!" shouted Crisostomo, drawing out a wide-bladed
Toledo knife.

But already a thousand little bubbles were rising to the surface of
the water, and all that was going on in the depths below was wrapped
in mystery.

"Jesús, Maria y José!" exclaimed the women. "We are going to have a
misfortune. Jesús, Maria y José!"

"Don't be alarmed, señoras," said the old boatman. "If there is any
one in this province who can do it, it is that fellow who has just
gone down."

"What is his name?" they asked.

"We call him 'The Pilot'; he is the best I have ever seen, only he
does not like his profession."

The water was being stirred violently, and it seemed that a fierce
fight was being waged in the depths of the lake. The sides of the
enclosure swayed to and fro, while the water seemed to be swirled by
a dozen currents. All held their breath. Ibarra grasped tightly the
handle of his sharp knife.

The fight seemed to be at an end. The head of the young man rose to
the surface of the water, and the sight was greeted by joyful shouts
from all. The eyes of the women were full of tears.

The pilot crawled up on the platform carrying in his hand the end of
the rope, and as soon as he was able pulled on it.

The monster appeared on top of the water. He had the rope tied twice
around his neck, and once behind his forelegs. He was a large fellow,
as Leon had already announced. He was beautifully colored and green
moss was growing on his back. He bellowed like an ox, struck his tail
against the sides of the enclosure, snapped at them, and opened his
black, frightful-looking mouth, showing his long teeth.

The pilot, unassisted, raised him up out of the water. No one offered
to help him. Just as soon as the animal was out of the water and
placed on the platform, the pilot put his foot on his back. Then,
closing the animal's massive jaws, he tried to tie his big snout tight
with the rope. The reptile made a last effort, doubled up his body,
struck the floor of the platform with his powerful tail and, breaking
loose, made a leap into the water of the lake, on the other side of
the weir, at the same time dragging with him his captor. It seemed
that the pilot would be a dead man. A cry of horror went up from all.

Like a flash of lightning, another body leaped into the water. So
quickly was it done that they had scarcely time to see that it was
Ibarra. Maria Clara did not faint, simply because the Filipinos do
not know how to faint.

They all saw the water become colored, and tinged with blood. The
young fisherman leaped to the bottom with his bolo in his hand; his
father followed him. But, scarcely had they disappeared, when they
saw Crisostomo and the pilot reappear, clinging to the body of the
reptile. The monster's white belly was slashed, while in his throat
the knife still stuck like a nail.

It is impossible to describe the joy that came over the party at
the sight; all arms were extended to help them out of the water. The
old women were half crazed with joy, and laughed and prayed. Andeng
forgot that her kettle had been boiling three different times; now
it was leaking and had put out the fire. The only one who could not
speak was Maria Clara.

Ibarra was unhurt. The pilot had a slight scratch on his arm.

"I owe you my life!" said he to Ibarra as the latter wrapped himself
up in the shawls and blankets. The voice of the pilot had a ring
of sincerity.

"You are too bold," replied Ibarra. "Another time you must not
tempt God."

"If you had never come back!" exclaimed Maria, pale and trembling.

"If I had never come back and you had followed after me," replied
the young man, "I would have been with all my family in the bottom of
the lake." Ibarra was thinking that in those depths lay the remains
of his father.

The mothers of the girls did not want to go to the other baklad
or weir. They preferred to go back home happy, for the day had
commenced with a bad omen and they feared that they would suffer
many misfortunes.

"It is all because we have not heard mass," sighed one of them.

"But what misfortune have we had, señoras?" asked Ibarra. "The
alligator was the unfortunate one."

"That goes to show," concluded Albino, "that, in all his fishing life,
this reptile has never heard mass. I never saw him, I am sure, among
the other reptiles who frequent the church."

The bancas were turned toward the other fish rack, and it was necessary
for Andeng to get the water boiling again.

The day was advancing; a breeze was blowing; little waves were stirred
up on the water, and rippled around the alligator. The music began
again. Iday was playing the harp, while the young men were playing
the accordeons and guitars with more or less skill. But the one who
played best was Albino.

The other weir was visited with an entire lack of confidence. Many
of the party expected to find there the mate to the alligator, but
Nature fooled them and every time that the net was lowered it was
brought up full of fish.

They then headed for the shore of the lake, where is situated the
forest of trees centuries old, owned by Ibarra. There in the shade
and near the crystal brook the party were to take their breakfast
among the flowers or under improvised tents.






CHAPTER XII

IN THE WOODS.


Very early that morning Father Salví had said mass, cleaning, according
to his custom, a dozen dirty souls in a few minutes. The reading of a
few letters, which had arrived well sealed with wax, seemed to cause
the worthy curate to lose his appetite, for he allowed his chocolate
to get cold.

"The Father is ill," said the cook as he prepared another cup. "It
is several days since he has eaten anything; of six dishes which I
put on the table for him, he has not touched two."

"It must be that he does not sleep well," replied the servant. "He
has nightmare since he changed his bedroom. Every day his eyes are
sinking deeper, he grows gradually thinner, and is very yellow."

As a matter of fact, it was a pitiful sight to behold Father Salví. He
did not care to touch his second cup of chocolate, nor to taste the
Cebu cakes. He walked pensively to and fro in the spacious sala,
crumpling between his bony fingers some letters which he would read
from time to time. Finally, he called for his carriage, got ready
and ordered the coachman to take him to the woods where the picnic
was to be held. Arriving at the place, Father Salví dismissed the
carriage and all alone, entered the forest.

A shady but difficult path runs through the thicket and leads to the
brook which is formed by the hot springs so plentiful at the base of
Mount Makiling.

For some time, Father Salví was wandering among the thick underbrush,
here trying to evade the thorns which entangled his habit of guingon
as if to detain him; there trying to step over the roots of the trees
which stuck up through the ground and made the inexperienced traveler
stumble again and again. Suddenly he stopped. Mirthful laughter and the
sound of young voices reached his ears. The voices and the laughter
seemed to come from the direction of the brook and each time seemed
to be coming nearer.

"I am going to see if I can find a heron's nest," said a voice,
beautiful and sweet, and at once recognized by the curate. "You know
they say that if a person possesses one of those nests he can make
himself invisible to everybody. How I would like to see him and not
have him see me! I could follow him everywhere."

Father Salví hid behind the thick trunk of an old tree and listened.

"That is to say, you want to do with him what the curate does with
you: watch him everywhere?" replied the merry voice. "Be careful,
for jealousy makes one grow thin and the eyes sink in."

"No, no. It is not jealousy, it is pure curiosity," replied the silvery
voice, while the other repeated, "yes, yes, jealousy; that's what it
is." And then she broke out in a merry chuckle.

"If I were jealous of him I would not use the heron's nest to make
myself invisible to him, but would make him invisible to everybody
else."

"But then you yourself would not be able to see him and you would
not want that to happen. The best thing to do, if we find a heron's
nest is to give it to the priest. Then he could watch us as much as
he pleased, and we would not be troubled with the sight of him. What
do you think of the idea?"

"But I don't believe in the story about the heron's nests, anyway,"
replied one. "But if I were really jealous I would know how to keep
watch of a person and make myself invisible...."

"And how? How would you do it? Perhaps you would do as Sister Listener
does in the convent?"

This reference to days passed in the convent provoked a jolly laugh
all around.

Father Salví saw from his hiding-place Maria Clara, Victoria, and
Sinang, wading in the stream. All three were looking into the water,
which was like a mirror, in search of the heron's nest. They were
getting wet up to their knees, the wide folds of their bathing skirts
allowing one to guess how graceful were the curves of their limbs. They
were wearing their hair loose and their arms were bare. Striped,
bright-colored bodices covered their breasts. The three lasses, at
the same time that they were hunting for that which did not exist,
collected flowers and plants which were growing on the banks of
the stream.

The religious Acteon, pale and immovable, stood gazing upon Maria
Clara, that chaste Diana. The eyes which shone in those dark orbits
never tired of admiring those white and beautiful arms, that pretty,
round neck, those tiny and rosy feet as they played in the water. As
he contemplated all this, strange feelings were awakened in his breast,
new dreams took possession of his burning mind.

The three pretty forms disappeared in a thick growth of bamboo behind
a bend in the stream, but their cruel allusions could still be heard by
the curate. Intoxicated with the strange ideas in his head, staggering,
and covered with perspiration, Father Salví left his hiding-place
and looked about him in all directions with staring eyes. He stood
immovable, in doubt. He took a few steps as if to follow the young
women, but he turned about, and walked along the bank of the stream
in order to find the rest of the picnic party.

Some distance ahead, in the middle of the stream, he could see a
bathing place well enclosed by bamboo. He could hear, merry laughter
and feminine accents coming from that direction. Still further down the
stream he could see a bamboo bridge and some men in bathing. In the
meantime, a multitude of servants were bustling about the improvised
fireplaces, some engaged in plucking chickens, others in washing
rice and roasting pig. And there on the opposite bank, in a clearing
which had been made, were a number of men and women under a tent. The
tent had been made by hanging canvas from the limbs of some of the
old trees and by erecting a few poles. There in the group was the
alferez, the teniente mayor, the coadjutor, the gobernadorcillo,
the school teacher, a number, of past captains and lieutenants,
including even Captain Basilio, who was Sinang's father, and the
former rival of the deceased Don Rafael. Ibarra had said to him:
"The mere fact that we are parties to a law-suit does not mean that
we have to be enemies." So it was that the celebrated orator of the
conservative party had accepted the invitation to the picnic with
enthusiasm, and had even brought along three turkeys and put his
servants at the disposition of the young man.

The parish priest was received with respect and deference by all,
even by the alferez.

"But where did Your Reverence come from?" some one asked on seeing
his face full of scratches, and his habit covered with leaves and
pieces of dried branches. "Has Your Reverence fallen down?"

"No, I lost my way," replied Father Salví, looking down and examining
his clothes.

Bottles of lemonade were opened, green cocoanuts were cut in two so
that those who were coming out of the bath might have the refreshing
milk to drink and the delicate meat to eat. The young women in addition
received rosaries of sampagas interwoven with roses and ilang-ilang,
which gave a beautiful fragrance to their loose hair. Some were
sitting or lying in hammocks which had been hung from the branches
of the trees; others were entertaining themselves in a game that
was going on around a large, flat stone. Playing cards, checkers,
dice and many other games were in progress.

They showed the alligator to the curate, but he seemed absorbed and
paid no attention until they mentioned the fact that the wide wound
in the animal's neck had been made by Ibarra. Then, too, the pilot,
the principal figure in the incident, had disappeared and could not
be found anywhere.

Finally Maria Clara came out of the bath, accompanied by her friends,
fresh as a rose when first it blooms, and when the dew on its divine
petals glistens like diamonds. Her first smile was for Ibarra; and
her first frown for Father Salví. The latter noticed this, but he
did not even sigh.

It was now time to eat. The curate, the coadjutor, the alferez, the
gobernadorcillo, and some of the captains, together with the tenente
mayor sat down at the table over which Ibarra presided. The mothers of
the girls did not allow any one to eat at the table with their charges.

"Do you know anything yet, Señor Alferez, about the criminal who
assaulted Father Dámaso?" asked Father Salví.

"About what criminal, Father?" asked the alferez, looking at the
parish priest through his empty wine glass.

"About whom could it be? About the one who, day before yesterday,
struck Father Dámaso, of course."

"Struck Father Dámaso?" asked a number of voices.

The coadjutor was seen to smile.

"Yes; and Father Dámaso is now in bed. It is believed that the culprit
was that same Elias who once threw you into a mud-hole, Señor Alferez."

The alferez colored up a little, either from shame or too much wine.

"I thought that you were interested in the affair," continued Father
Salví, with a little jeering in his manner.

The alferez bit his lips and mumbled out a silly excuse.

The meal ended and, while tea and coffee were being served, the young
and old distributed themselves about in various groups. Some picked
up playing cards and others dice, but the young women, anxious to
know the future, preferred to try their luck with the wheel of fortune.

"Come, Señor Ibarra," shouted Captain Basilio, who was a little bit
jolly. "We have a law-suit that has been pending for fifteen years,
and there isn't a judge in the Supreme Court in Manila who can
decide it. Let us see if we can settle it on the chess board. What
do you say?"

The game of chess began with much solemnity.

"If the game is a draw," said Ibarra, "it is understood that the suit
is off."

About the middle of the game, Ibarra received a telegram which made
his eyes glisten and his face grow pale. He put it in his pocket-book,
not, however, without directing a glance at the group of young women
who continued with much laughter to play the wheel of fortune.

"Check to the king!" said the young man.

Captain Basilio had no other resort than to hide him behind the queen.

"Check to the queen!" said Ibarra, threatening it with his rook,
which was defended by a pawn.

Not being able to cover the queen, nor to retire it on account of the
fact that the king was behind it, Captain Basilio asked permission
to study the situation a little.

"Certainly, with much pleasure," replied Ibarra. "I will take advantage
of the opportunity, for I have something to say to some of the members
of that group over there."

And rising to his feet, he gave his opponent half an hour to study
it out.

Iday held in her hands the strip of cardboard on which was written
forty-eight questions, while Albino held the book which contained
the answers.

"That's a lie! It's not so! It lies!" cried Sinang, half in tears.

"What is the matter with you?" asked Maria Clara.

"Just imagine it: I asked the question 'When will I have some
sense?' I threw the dice and he, this all-night-watching priest
(Albino, the ex-seminary student) reads from the book: 'When the
frogs grow hairs.' What do you think of that?"

And Sinang made a face at the former religious student, who was still
laughing heartily.

"Who told you to ask such a question?" said her cousin Victoria. "Any
one who asks such a question deserves just such an answer."

"You ask a question!" said they all to Ibarra. "We have agreed that
the one who receives the best answer shall receive a gift from the
others. We have all asked our questions already."

"And who has received the best answer?"

"Maria Clara, Maria Clara!" replied Sinang. "We made her ask the
question whether you loved her or not: 'Is your lover faithful and
constant,' and the book replied----"

But Maria Clara colored up, and, putting her hands over Sinang's mouth,
did not allow her to finish what she had to say.

"Then, let me try it," said Crisostomo, smiling.

He asked the question: "Will I succeed in my present undertaking?"

"You are going to get a bad answer," exclaimed Sinang.

Ibarra threw the dice, and noting the number, they looked for the
page in the little book with the corresponding answer.

"Dreams are only dreams," read Albino.

Ibarra took out his pocket-book and opened it trembling.

"This time your book has lied," he said, full of joy. "Read this!"



"Plan for school house approved; other matter decided in your favor."



"What does that mean?" they all asked.

"Did you not tell me that the one who received the best answer was to
get a present?" the young man asked, his voice trembling with emotion
while he carefully divided the paper into two parts.

"Yes, yes!"

"Well, then! This is my gift," he said handing half of the telegram
to Maria Clara. "I am going to have a school house for boys and girls
erected in the town. This school house will be my gift."

"And this other piece: what does that mean?"

"I will give that to the one who has obtained the worst answer."

"Then that is for me!" exclaimed Sinang.

Ibarra gave her the piece of paper and quickly went off.

"And what does this mean?"

But the happy young man was already far away from the little group
and he did not reply. He had gone to finish the game of chess.

After making the present to his betrothed, Ibarra was so happy that he
began to play without stopping to think or even examining carefully
the position of the chess. As a result, although Captain Basilio had
defended himself only by the greatest effort, the young man made so
many mistakes that the game resulted in a draw.

"We end the suit, we end the suit!" said Captain Basilio, happy over
his success.

"Yes, we declare it off," repeated the young man, "whatever decision
the judges may have been able to reach."

Each grasped the hand of the other and shook it with effusion.

In the meantime, while those present were celebrating the ending of
the law-suit, of which both had long been tired, four Civil Guards
and a sergeant suddenly arrived on the scene. They were all armed
and had their bayonets fixed, a fact which naturally disturbed the
merriment and brought fright into the circle of women.

"Let everybody be quiet!" cried the sergeant. "Whoever moves will
be shot!"

In spite of this gruff boast, Ibarra rose to his feet and approached
the sergeant.

"What do you wish?" he asked.

"That you give up at once the criminal named Elias who acted as pilot
for your party this morning," he replied, in a threatening tone.

"A criminal? The pilot? You must be mistaken!" replied Ibarra.

"No, sir; that Elias is now accused of another crime, of having laid
his hands on a priest----"

"Ah! And is the pilot the one?"

"He is the same one, so we are told. You are allowing people of bad
reputation to attend your festivals, Señor Ibarra."

Ibarra looked at him from head to foot and replied with supreme
contempt: "I don't have to account to you for my actions. At our
festivals everybody is well received, and you yourself, if you had
come, would have been given a seat at the table, the same as the
alferez who was here among us two hours ago."

Saying this, Ibarra turned his back to him. The sergeant bit his
mustache and ordered his men to search everywhere among the trees
for the pilot, whose description he had on a piece of paper.

Don Filipo said to him: "Take note that this description corresponds
to that of nine-tenths of the natives. Take care that you do not make
a mistake!"

At last the soldiers returned, saying that they had not been able to
discover either a banca, or a man that aroused their suspicion. The
sergeant murmured a few indistinct words and then marched off.

Soon the people became jolly again, but questions, wonder and comments
were without end.

So the afternoon passed and the hour for departure arrived. Just as
the sun was dropping below the horizon they left the woods. The trees
seemed sad and all the surroundings seemed to bid them farewell and
say: "Good-bye, happy youth; good-bye, dream of a day."

And a little later, by the light of glowing torches of bamboo and
with the music of guitars, we leave them on the road toward the town.






CHAPTER XIII

IN THE HOUSE OF TASIO.


On the morning of the following day, Juan Crisostomo Ibarra, after
visiting his estates, went to the house of Tasio, the philosopher,
his father's friend.

Quiet reigned in the old man's garden. The swallows were flying about
the gables of the house, but they were making scarcely a sound. The
windows were covered with vines which clung to the old, moss-covered
wall and made the house appear all the more solitary and quiet. Ibarra
tied his horse to a post and, walking almost on tip-toes, crossed the
clean and well-cultivated garden. He went up the stairs and, as the
door was open, walked in. An old man leaned over a book in which he
seemed to be writing. On the walls of the room were collections of
insects and leaves, maps, and some shelves of books and manuscripts.

Tasio was so absorbed in his work that he did not notice the arrival
of the youth. The latter, not wishing to disturb the philosopher,
tried to retire from the place, but the old man, looking up, said:
"What? Are you here?" and showed no little surprise in his look.

"Excuse me," replied Ibarra, "I see that you are very busy."

"As a matter of fact I was writing a little, but it is not urgent,
and I want to rest myself. Can I be useful to you in any way?"

Ibarra drew some papers from his pocket-book and replied: "My
father was wont to consult you in many things, and I remember that
he never had to do other than congratulate himself when he followed
your advice. I have on my hands a small undertaking and I want to be
assured of success."

Ibarra then related to him briefly his plan for the erection of
a school house in honor of his betrothed. He showed the stupefied
philosopher the plans which had been returned from Manila.

"I wish that you would advise me as to what persons I ought first to
have on my side in order to make the undertaking most successful. You
are well acquainted with the inhabitants of the town. I have just
arrived here and am almost a stranger in my country."

The old man examined the plans which were laid out before him. His
eyes were full of tears.

"That which you are going to carry out was a dream of mine, the dream
of a poor fool," he exclaimed, greatly moved. "And now, my first advice
to you is that you never come to consult me in regard to the matter."

The young man looked at him in surprise.

"Because sensible people," he continued, in an ironical tone, "will
take you for a fool, like myself. People always consider every one
a fool who does not think just as they do and, for this reason,
they call me crazy. But I am obliged to them for that, for woe be
to me when the time arrives that they say I have sense! That day,
should it ever come, would deprive me of the little liberty which I
have purchased by sacrificing my reputation for being sane."

And the old man shook his head, as if to drive away a thought and
continued: "My second advice to you is that you consult the curate,
the gobernadorcillo, and all the people of good standing. They will all
give you bad, foolish and useless advice, but to consult does not mean
to obey. Try to appear to be following their advice as far as possible
and make them think you are working according to their wishes."

Ibarra sat thinking for a moment and then replied: "The advice is good
but difficult to follow. Could I not carry out my work without a shadow
reflecting upon it? Could I not carry out the good work in spite of
all? Does truth need to be clothed in the garments of falsehood?"

"That's it. Nobody likes the bare truth."

"I hope to be able to realize all my hopes without encountering great
resistance," said Ibarra.

"Yes, if the priests lend you their hand; no, if they draw it away. All
your efforts will be battered to pieces against the walls of the
curate's house. The alcalde will deny to you to-morrow what he has
granted you to-day. Not a mother will let her son attend the school,
and then all your efforts will have just an opposite effect to that
intended. You will discourage all others who might wish to attempt
beneficent undertakings."

"Nevertheless," replied Ibarra, "I cannot believe in this power of
which you speak. And even supposing it to be true, admitting that it
is as you say, would I not still have on my side the sensible people
and the Government?"

"The Government! The Government!" exclaimed the philosopher, raising
his eyes and looking at the ceiling. "However much the Government
may desire to uplift the country for its own benefit and that of
the mother country; however generous may be the Catholic Kings in
spirit, I must remind you in confidence that there is another power
which does not allow the Government to see, hear, or judge except
what the curates or provincial priests wish. The Government is
afraid of the advancement of the people, and the people are afraid
of the forces of the Government. So long as the Government does
not understand the people of the country, the country will never
get out from this guardianship. The people will live like weak,
young children who tremble at the sound of the voice of their tutor,
whose mercy they beg. The Government has no dreams of a great future,
a healthy development of the country. The people do not complain,
because they have no voice. They do not move, because they are too
carefully watched. You say that they do not suffer, because you have
not seen what would make your heart bleed. But some day you will see
it! alas! some day you will hear it. When the light of day is thrown on
their monstrous forms, you will see a frightful reaction. That great
force, held back for centuries, that poison, distilled drop by drop,
those sighs, so long repressed--all will come to light and will some
day burst forth.... Who will then pay the accounts which the people
will present and which History preserves for us on its bloody pages?"

"God, the Government, and the Church will never allow that day to
come!" replied Crisostomo, impressed in spite of himself. "The
Filipinos are religious and they love Spain. The Filipinos will
always know how much this nation has done for them. There are abuses;
yes! There are defects; I do not deny it. But Spain is working to
introduce reforms which will correct them; she is devising plans;
she is not selfish. Can it be that my love for my native land is
incompatible with love for Spain? Is it necessary to lower one's self
to be a good Christian, to prostitute one's own conscience to bring
about good? I love my fatherland, the Philippines, because I owe
to her my life and my happiness--because every man should love his
native land. I love Spain, the fatherland of my ancestors, because,
in spite of all that may be said, the Philippines owe to Spain,
and always will owe to her, their happiness and their future. I am a
Catholic. I hold dear the belief of my fathers, and I do not see why
I have to bow my head when I am able to raise it; nor why I have to
entrust it to my enemies, when I can trample on them."

"Because the field in which you are sowing your seed is in the hands
of your enemies, and you are weak in comparison to them.... It is
necessary that you first kiss the hand----"

But the young man did not allow him to go farther and exclaimed
violently: "To kiss their hands! You forget that, between them, they
killed my father; they threw his body out of its sepulchre: but I,
I who am his son, I do not forget it, and, if I do not avenge myself,
it is because I consider the prestige of the Church."

The old philosopher bowed his head. "Señor Ibarra," he replied slowly,
"if you keep those memories--memories which I cannot advise you to
forget--if you keep those memories, give up your plans and your
undertaking and try to work good for your countrymen in another
way. The undertaking needs another man than you for its execution,
because to carry it out will not only require money and care, but,
in our country, self-denial, tenacity and faith are also needed. The
land is not ready for it; it has been sown only with darnel."

Ibarra understood the weight of these words, but he was not going
to be discouraged. Thoughts of Maria Clara filled his mind; he must
fulfill his promise to her.

"Does not your experience suggest something other than this hard
method?" he asked in a low voice.

The old man took him by the arm and led him to the window. A cool
breeze was blowing from the north. Before his eyes lay the garden,
stretching out to the large forest which served as a park.

"Why do we not have to do the same as that weak young bush loaded
with roses and buds?" said the philosopher pointing to a beautiful
rose bush. "The wind blows, shakes it and it bends itself down as if
trying to hide its precious load. If the bush kept itself erect, it
would be broken off, the wind would scatter its flowers and the buds
would be blighted. The wind passes over, and the bush straightens
itself up again, proud of its treasure. Thus it would be with you,
a plant transplanted from Europe to this stony ground, if you did not
look about for some support and belittle yourself. Alone and lofty,
you are in bad condition."

"And would this sacrifice bring the fruits that I hope for?" asked
Ibarra. "Would the priest have faith in me and would he forget the
offense? Would his kind not be able to feign friendship, to make a
false show of protecting me, and then, from behind in the darkness,
fight me, harass me and wound my heels, thus making me waver more
quickly than they could by attacking me face to face? Given these
premises, what do you think could be expected?"

The old man remained silent for some time, not being able to reply. At
last he said: "If such a thing took place, if the undertaking failed,
I would console you with the thought that you had done all that was
in your power. And even so, something would be gained. Lay the first
stone, sow the first seed and after the tempest has passed over,
some little grain perhaps would germinate."

"I believe you," exclaimed Ibarra, stretching out his hand. "Not in
vain did I look for good advice. This very day I shall go and make
friends with the curate."

Taking leave of the old man, he mounted on his horse and rode away.

"Attention!" murmured the pessimistic philosopher to himself, as he
followed the young man with his eyes. "Let us observe carefully how
Destiny will unfold the tragedy which began in the cemetery."

But this time the philosopher was truly mistaken. The tragedy had
begun long before.






CHAPTER XIV

THE EVE OF THE FIESTA.


It is the tenth of November, the eve of the fiesta to be celebrated
in the town of San Diego. Departing from its habitual monotony,
the town is displaying extraordinary activity in the church, houses,
streets, cock-pit, and the fields. Windows are draped with flags and
many-colored decorations. Music and the sound of exploding fireworks
fill the air. Everywhere there is rejoicing.

In the streets at fixed intervals, beautiful arches of bamboo are
raised, the wood carved and worked in a thousand different ways. The
arches are surrounded with ornaments, the very sight of which brings
joy to the heart of the small boy. In the church yard, a large and
costly awning has been erected. It is propped up by bamboo poles and
so arranged that the procession may pass under it. Under its shade the
children play, run, jump, fall and otherwise manage to tear and soil
their new shirts, which have been intended for the day of the festival.

In the public square a platform has been built of bamboo, nipa and
boards, to serve as the stage. It is here that the comedy company from
Tondo will tell wonderful tales, and will compete with the gods in the
performance of miracles. Here Marianito, Chananay, Balbino, Ratia,
Carvajal, Yeyeng, Liceria and the others will sing and dance. The
Filipino loves the theatre, and always attends dramatic productions
with a great deal of pleasure. The gobernadorcillo was very fond of
the theatre, and, with the advice of the curate, he had selected for
the fiesta the fantastic comedy: "Prince Villardo, or the Nails Pulled
Out of the Infamous Cave," a play full of magic and fireworks.

From time to time the bells ring out their merry sounds. Firecrackers
and the booming of little cannon rend the air. The Filipino
pyrotechnist, who has learned his art without a teacher of any renown,
displays his skill, setting up pieces representing towers, castles,
and the like. Already the small boys are running at break-neck speed
toward the outskirts of the town to meet the bands of music. Five
organizations have been hired, besides three orchestras.

A band enters the town playing lively marches, and is followed by
a lot of ragged and half naked pickaninnies: this one, perhaps, has
on his brother's shirt; that one, his father's trousers. As soon as
the music stops, these little tots know by memory the piece that has
been played; they whistle and hum it with great delight, showing at
this early age their musical talent.

In the meantime wagons and carriages arrive, bringing relatives,
friends, and strangers. Gamblers are also on hand with their best
fighting cocks and bags of money, ready to risk their fortunes on
the green cloth or in the cock-pit.

"The alferez gets fifty dollars a night," murmured a little, chubby
man when he heard of the recent arrivals, for there were already
many rumors that these people bribed the officer so that they might
not be interfered with by the law. "Captain Tiago," he added,
"is going to come and will be banker in the monte game. Captain
Joaquin brings eighteen thousand. There is going to be a liam-po,
[11] and the Chino Carlos is going to back it with ten thousand pesos
capital. Big bettors will come from Tanauan, Lipa, and Batangas,
as well as from Santa Cruz. It's going to be great! It's going to be
great! This year Captain Tiago will not skin us as he has in the past,
for he has not paid for more than three masses this year, and besides,
I have a mutya [12] of cacao. And how are all the family?"

"Very well, very well, thank you!" replied the visitors from the
country.

But the place where the greatest animation reigns, where there is
almost a tumult, is over there on the level piece of ground, a short
distance from Ibarra's house. Pulleys creak, and the place resounds
with the sound of the hammer, the chiseling of stones, hewing of beams
and the shouting of voices. A gang of workmen is making an excavation
which will be wide and deep; others are busy piling up quarry stone,
unloading carts, sifting sand, putting a capstan in place and so on.

"Put that here! That, there! Come, be lively about it!" shouts a
little, old man with an animated and intelligent physiognomy as he
goes about, a yard stick and plumb line in hand. He is the director
of the work, Ñor Juan, architect, mason, carpenter, whitewasher,
locksmith, painter, stone cutter, and, on occasion, sculptor.

"We must finish it immediately! To-morrow nothing can be done, and
day after to-morrow the ceremony of laying the corner stone is to
take place! Come, be lively!"

"Make the hole just large enough for this cylinder!" said he to
one of the stone cutters who was chiseling off a large quadrangular
stone. "Inside of this our names will be kept."

Then he would repeat to every countryman who came along what he had
already said a thousand times: "Do you know what we are going to
build? Well, it is a school house, a model of its kind, something
like those in Germany, but still better. The architect, Señor R.,
draughted the plans and I, I am in charge of the work. Yes, sir,
you see this is going to be a regular palace with two wings, one for
the boys and one for the girls. Here in the middle is to be a large
garden with three fountains. There, on the sides, groves, where the
children can sow and cultivate plants during the hours of recreation,
thus improving the time. Just see how deep the foundations are to be:
three meters and seventy-five centimeters. The building is going to
have a cellar where the indolent pupils will be confined. This will be
very close to the playing ground and the gymnasium, so that those who
are punished may hear the diligent pupils enjoying themselves. Do you
see this large space? Well, this will be a place for them to run and
jump. The girls will have a separate garden with benches, swings,
a special place for jumping the rope and rolling hoops, fountains
and a bird-house. This is going to be magnificent!"

He kept going from one end to the other, inspecting everything and
passing his opinion on all.

"I find that you have got too much lumber here for a crane," said he to
a yellowish-looking fellow, who was directing some other laborers. "I
would have enough, with three large beams, to form the tripod and
with three others to serve as supporters."

"O, pshaw!" replied the other, smiling in a peculiar way. "The more
apparatus we give ourselves, the greater effect we will produce. The
massiveness of it will make a bigger show and give it more
importance. They will say: 'What a lot of work has been done!' You
look at that crane that I am constructing. In a little while, I am
going to ornament it with banderolas, garlands of flowers and leaves,
and ... you will say afterward that you were right in hiring me,
and Señor Ibarra cannot wish for more than that!"

The man laughed. Ñor Juan also smiled and shook his head.

As a matter of fact, the plan for the school had been approved by
everybody and all were talking about it. The curate had asked to be
allowed to be one of the patrons of the enterprise and he himself was
to bless the laying of the corner stone, a ceremony which would take
place on the last day of the San Diego festival, as it was considered
one of the great solemnities.

The dismal presentiments of the old Tasio seemed to have been
dissipated forever. One day Ibarra told the old man so, but the old
pessimist only replied: "Things may go well at first, but be on your
guard against masked enemies."






CHAPTER XV

AS NIGHT COMES ON.


Great preparations had also been made in the house of Captain Tiago. We
are already acquainted with the man. His love for pomp and his pride in
being a resident of Manila made it necessary that he should outdo the
residents of the province in the splendor of his celebration. There
was another thing, too, which made it necessary that he should try
to eclipse all others--the fact that his daughter Maria Clara and
his future son-in-law were also there. His prospective connection
with Ibarra caused the Captain to be often spoken of among the people.

Yes, as a matter of fact, one of the most serious newspapers in
Manila had printed an article on its first page, headed "Imitate
Him!" in which they offered Ibarra much advice and highly eulogized
him. The article spoke of him as "the illustrious and rich young
capitalist." Two lines below, he was termed "the distinguished
philanthropist," and, in the following paragraph, referred to as the
"disciple of Minerva who went to his Mother Country to salute the
real birthplace of arts and sciences." Captain Tiago was burning with
generous emulation and was wondering whether he ought not to erect
a convent at his own expense.

Days before the week of festivities, numerous boxes of provisions and
drinks, colossal mirrors, pictures, paintings and his daughter's piano
had arrived at the house. Maria Clara and Aunt Isabel were already
living there. Captain Tiago came on the day before the beginning of the
festival. As he kissed his daughter's hand, he made her a present of
a beautiful religious relic. It was solid gold, and set with diamonds
and emeralds, and contained a little sliver from Saint Peter's boat,
in which Our Saviour sat while fishing.

The Captain's interview with his future son-in-law could not have
been more cordial. Naturally, the school house was the subject of
conversation. Captain Tiago wanted him to call the school "The San
Francisco School."

"Believe me!" he said. "San Francisco is a good patron saint. If
you call it 'The Primary School,' you gain nothing. Who is Primary,
anyway?"

Some friends of Maria Clara arrived and invited her to go for a walk.

"But return quickly," said the Captain to his daughter, who asked
for his permission. "You know that Father Dámaso is going to dine
with us to-night. He has just arrived."

And turning to Ibarra who was deep in thought, he added: "You will
dine with us, too? You will be all alone at home."

"With the greatest pleasure, I assure you, if I did not have to be at
home to-night to receive visitors," replied the young man, mumbling
his words and evading Maria Clara's glance.

"Bring your friends along with you," replied Captain Tiago
cheerfully. "In my house there is always enough to eat. And, besides
I would like to have you and Father Dámaso understand each other."

"There'll be time enough for that," replied Ibarra, putting on a
forced smile and making ready to accompany the young ladies.

They went downstairs. Maria Clara was walking between Victoria and
Iday, while Aunt Isabel followed behind.

As they passed down the street, people stood aside respectfully
and gave them the inside of the way. Maria Clara was surprisingly
beautiful now. Her paleness had disappeared, and although her eyes
were thoughtful, her mouth, on the contrary, seemed all smiles. With
that amiability known only to a happy maiden, she saluted friends she
had known from childhood who to-day were admirers of her youthful
beauty. In less than fifteen days she had regained that frank
confidence, that childish chatter, which seemed for awhile to have been
left behind in the narrow walls of the convent. It seemed as though
the butterfly upon leaving its shell knew all the flowers at once. It
was enough that she be given a moment of flight and an opportunity
to warm herself in the golden rays of the sun, in order to throw off
the rigidity of the chrysalis. New life shone out in every part of her
young being. Everything she met with was good and beautiful. Her love
was manifested with virginal grace, and innocent in thought, she saw
nothing to cause her to put on false blushes. However, she was wont
to cover her face with her fan when they joked with her, but her eyes
would smile and a gentle tremor would pass over her whole being.

In front of Captain Basilio's house were some young men who saluted
our acquaintances and invited them into the house. The merry voice
of Sinang was heard, as she descended the stairs on a run and at once
put an end to all excuses.

"Come up a moment so that I can go out with you," said she. "It
bores me to be among so many strangers who talk about nothing but
fighting-cocks and playing cards."

They went upstairs. The house was full of people. Some advanced to
greet Ibarra, whose name was known to all. They contemplated with
ecstacy Maria Clara's beauty, and some of the matrons murmured as
they chewed their betel-nut: "She looks like the Virgin!"

After they had partaken of chocolate they resumed their walk. In the
corner of the plaza a beggar was singing the romance of the fishes,
to the accompaniment of a guitar. He was a common sight, a man
miserably dressed and wearing a wide-brimmed hat made out of palm
leaves. His clothing consisted of a frock coat covered with patches,
and a pair of wide trousers such as the Chinese wear, but torn in many
places. From beneath the brim of his hat two fiery orbs flashed out a
ray of light. He was tall and from his manner seemed to be young. He
put a basket down on the ground and, afterwards walking away from
it a little distance, he uttered strange, unintelligible sounds. He
remained standing, completely isolated, as if he and the people in the
street were trying to avoid each other. Women approached his basket,
and dropped into it fish, fruit and rice. When there was no one else
to approach the basket, other sadder but less mournful sounds could
be heard; perhaps he was thanking them. He picked up his basket and
walked away to do the same in another place.

Maria Clara felt that this was a pitiful case. Full of interest,
she asked about the strange being.

"It is a leper," replied Iday. "He contracted the disease some four
years ago; some say by taking care of his mother, others by having
been confined in a damp prison. He lives there in the field near the
Chinese cemetery. He does not communicate with any one: everybody
flees from him on account of the fear of contagion. You should see his
fantastic little house! The wind, the rain and the sunshine go in and
out of it as a needle goes through cloth. They have prohibited him
from touching anything belonging to anybody. One day a little child
fell into the canal. The canal was deep, but this man happened to be
passing near and helped to get the little child out. The child's father
learned of it, made a complaint to the gobernadorcillo and the latter
ordered that he be given six stripes in the middle of the street,
the whip to be afterwards burned. That was atrocious! The leper ran
away howling; they pursued him and the gobernadorcillo cried out:
'Catch him! One might better be drowned than have that disease!'"

"That is true," murmured Maria Clara. And then, without noticing what
she was doing, she went up to the basket of the unfortunate wretch and
dropped into it the relic which her father had just presented to her.

"What have you done?" her friends asked her.

"I have nothing else to give him," she replied, concealing the tears
in her eyes by a smile.

"And what is he going to do with the relic?" said Victoria to
her. "One day they gave him money but he pushed it away from him with
his cane. Why would he care for it, if no one would accept anything
coming from him? If he could only eat the relic!"

Maria Clara looked longingly at the women who were selling provisions
and shrugged her shoulders.

But the leper approached the basket, picked up the piece of jewelry
which shone in his hands, knelt down, kissed it, and, after taking
off his hat, buried his face in the dust on which the young girl
had walked.

Maria Clara hid her face behind her fan and raised her handkerchief
to her eyes.






CHAPTER XVI

THE HOISTING CRANE.


While two of the actors were singing the Incarnatus est in the
church at the celebration of mass on the last day of the fiesta,
and all were kneeling and the priests were bowing their heads, a man
whispered in Ibarra's ear: "During the ceremony of the blessing of
the corner stone, do not go near the priest, do not go in the ditch,
do not approach the corner stone. Your life will depend on it."

Ibarra looked and saw that it was Elias, the pilot, but, as soon as
he had spoken, he lost himself in the crowd.

The yellow-skinned man kept his word. It was not a simple lifting
crane which he had built over the ditch for the purpose of lowering
the enormous block of granite. It was not the mere tripod which Ñor
Juan had wanted for holding a tackle-block. It was something more. It
was at the same time a machine and an ornament, grand and imposing.

The confusing and complicated scaffolding had been raised to a height
of more than eight meters. Four heavy timbers buried in the ground
and supporting each other with colossal, diagonal braces, served
as the base. The braces were joined to each other by immense nails,
about half driven into the wood, perhaps because the apparatus was
only of a provisional nature, and it could then be more easily taken
down. Enormous cables were hanging from all sides, giving the entire
apparatus an aspect of solidity and grandeur. The top was gay with
flags and banners of various colors, floating pennants, and massive
garlands of flowers and leaves, all artistically interwoven.

On high, in the shade of the projecting timbers, banners and wreaths,
a large three-wheeled tackle-block was suspended by ropes and iron
hooks. Over the shining rims of these pulleys great cables passed,
holding suspended in the air a massive stone. The center of this stone
had been chiseled out so that when lowered upon the hollowed stone,
which had already been placed in the ditch, a small enclosure would be
formed between the two. This space was to contain an account of the
ceremonies, newspapers, manuscripts and coins, to be transmitted,
perhaps, to other generations, in the far distant future. From
this tackle-block at the top of the structure, the cable passed
down to another smaller pulley which was fastened at the base of the
apparatus. Through this pulley, the cable passed to the cylinder of a
windlass which was held to the ground by massive beams. This windlass
which can be operated by only two hands, multiplies man's strength by
means of a series of cog-wheels. Although there is a gain in force,
there is of course a loss in velocity.

"Look!" said the yellow-skinned man, as he gave the crank a
turn. "Look, Ñor Juan, with my strength alone, I can raise and lower
that massive block of stone. This is so nicely arranged that I can
control the ascent or descent of the stone by inches. Thus one man
below can arrange the two stones in place, while I manipulate the
apparatus from here."

Ñor Juan could but admire the man as he smiled in such a peculiar
manner. The curious people standing about made comments and praised
the yellow-skinned man for his work.

"Who taught you the mechanism?" asked Ñor Juan.

"My father, my father who is now dead," he replied, with that same
peculiar smile.

"And who taught your father?"

"Don Saturnino, the grandfather of Don Crisostomo."

"I did not know that Don Saturnino----"

"Oh, he knew a good many things. Not only did he know how to whip well
and how to expose his workmen to the rays of the sun, but he knew also
how to awaken the sleeping and how to make those awake sleep. In time,
you will see what my father has taught me, you will see!"

And the yellow fellow smiled in a strange manner.

At two eating stands, there was now being prepared a sumptuous and
abundant breakfast. However, on the table designated for the little
ones of the school, there was no wine, but instead a larger amount
of fruit. In a covered passage which joined the two stands, there
were seats for the musicians and a table covered with sweetmeats,
candies and flasks of water, ornamented with leaves and flowers,
for the thirsty public.

The crowd, resplendent in gay-colored clothes, was already fleeing from
the hot rays of the sun and gathering under the shade of the trees
or of the covering. The small boys climbed the trees near the place,
in order to get a better view of the ceremony, and looked with envy
upon the school children, who, clean and well dressed, were occupying
a place designated for them. The fathers of the school children were
enthusiastic. They, poor countrymen that they were, would have the
pleasure of seeing their children eat on a white table cloth, just
like the curate and the Alcalde. Merely to think of it was enough to
drive away their hunger.

Soon strains of music were heard in the distance. A promiscuous
crowd of persons of all ages and dress was preceding the band. The
yellow-looking man was uneasy and was examining the whole apparatus. A
curious countryman was also following his glances and was observing
every movement he made. This countryman was Elias, who had also come to
attend the ceremony. His hat and his style of dress almost concealed
his identity. He had secured the best possible place for himself,
right up close to the crane, on the edge of the excavation.

With the band of music came the Alcalde, the officials of the town, the
friars, with the exception of Father Dámaso, and the Spanish employees
of the Government. Ibarra was conversing with the Alcalde, for they had
become quite friendly from the time the young man paid him some high
compliments on his insignia, decorations and cordon. Pride in belonging
to an aristocratic family was a weakness of His Excellency. Captain
Tiago, the alferez and several wealthy persons, with their shining
silk hats, walked along, surrounded by a group of youngsters. Father
Salví followed, the same as ever, silent and pensive.

The young man could feel his heart beat as they approached the
designated place. Instinctively, he glanced at the strange-looking
scaffolding which had been raised there. He saw, too, the
yellow-looking man who saluted him with respect, and, for a moment,
Ibarra fixed his eyes on him. To his surprise, Ibarra also discovered
Elias on the edge of the excavation. He gave the young pilot a
significant look, letting him understand that he remembered what he
had said in the church.

The curate put on his sacerdotal vestments and began the ceremony. The
one-eyed sacristan mayor held the book and a choir boy was charged
with the water-sprinkler and the vessel of blessed water. The others
who stood around about, their heads uncovered, maintained a deep
silence. In spite of the fact that Father Salví read in a low tone,
it could be noticed that his voice trembled.

In the meantime the articles, such as manuscripts, newspapers,
medals and coins, which were to be placed in the corner stone had
been enclosed in a little glass box, and hermetically sealed in a
leaden cylinder.

"Señor Ibarra, do you wish to put the box in its place? The curate
awaits it," said the Alcalde to Ibarra.

"I would do so with much pleasure," replied he, "but I would be
usurping the honorable duty of the Señor Notary. The Notary ought to
attest the act."

The Notary took it seriously, descended the carpeted stairs to the
bottom of the excavation and, with fitting solemnity, deposited the
box in the hollow which had been made in the stone. The curate then
took up the sprinkler and sprinkled the stones with holy water.

The time had now come for each one to put his trowelful of mortar on
the surface of the stone, which lay in the ditch, so that the other
stone might fit upon it and be made to adhere to it.

Ibarra presented the Alcalde with a trowel, upon whose wide silver
blade was engraved the date. But His Excellency first delivered an
address in Spanish.

"Citizens of San Diego," he said in a solemn tone. "I have the honor to
preside at a ceremony the importance of which you already understand. A
school is being founded. The school is the base of society. The school
is the book in which is written the future of the people. Show me
the schools of a people and I will tell you what those people are.

"Citizens of San Diego! Thank God that he has given you virtuous
priests; and the Mother Country that she untiringly diffuses her
civilization over these fertile islands, protected by her glorious
flag. Thank God that she has had pity for you, bringing you these
humble priests that they may enlighten you and teach you the divine
word. Thank the Government for the great sacrifices it has made,
makes now and will make in the future for you and your sons.

"And now that the first stone of this great edifice has been blessed,
I, Alcalde Mayor of this province, in the name of His Majesty,
the King, whom God guard, King of the Spains, in the name of the
illustrious Spanish Government, and under its spotless and ever
victorious banner, I consecrate this act and begin the building of
this school.

"Citizens of San Diego! Long live the King! Long live Spain! Long live
the Church! Long live the priests! Long live the Catholic religion!"

"Viva! Viva!" replied the others. "Long live the Alcalde!"

The Alcalde majestically descended to the accompaniment of the music
which had begun to play. He placed some trowels of mortar on the
stone and with equal majesty ascended the stairs.

The Government employees applauded.

Ibarra offered another silver trowel to the curate, who, after fixing
his eyes on him for a moment, descended slowly to the bottom of the
excavation. When about half way down the stairs, he raised his eyes
to look at the stone which hung suspended in the air by the powerful
cables, but he only looked at it for a second and then descended. He
did the same as the Alcalde had done, but this time more applause
was heard, for the Government employees were assisted by the other
friars and Captain Tiago.

Father Salví seemed to be searching for some one to whom to hand the
trowel. He looked with hesitation toward Maria Clara, but, changing
his mind, he offered it to the Notary. The latter, for the sake of
gallantry, approached Maria Clara, who declined it with a smile. The
friars, the Government employees and the alferez, one after another
went down and repeated the ceremony. Captain Tiago was not forgotten.

Ibarra had been omitted. He was about to order the yellow man to lower
the other stone, when the curate remembered him. In a pleasant tone
and, with an affectation of familiarity, he said to him. "Aren't you
going to put on your trowelful, Señor Ibarra?"

"I would be like the fellow who made the stew and then ate it,"
replied the young man in the same tone.

"O, go on!" said the Alcalde, giving him a gentle push. "If you don't,
I will order them not to lower the stone and then we will have to
wait here till Judgment Day."

So terrible a threat forced Ibarra to obey. He exchanged the small
silver trowel for a larger iron one, which made some of the people
smile. He advanced quietly and descended the stairs. Elias looked at
him with an indescribable expression. If you had seen him, you would
have thought that all his life was concentrated in his eyes. The
yellow man looked down into the abyss opening at his feet.

Ibarra, after glancing at the stone which hung over his head, and then
at Elias and the yellow man, said to Ñor Juan in a trembling voice:
"Give me the bucket of mortar and find another trowel for me above."

The young man stood alone. Elias was no longer looking at him; his eyes
instead were riveted on the yellow man's hand, while the latter leaned
over the ditch and followed with anxiety the movements of Ibarra.

The noise of the trowel removing a mass of sand and lime was heard,
accompanied by the low murmur of the employees who were congratulating
the Alcalde on his address.

Suddenly there was a frightful creaking. The pulley which was tied to
the base of the crane jumped and then the windlass struck the apparatus
like a battering-ram. The timbers swayed, ropes flew into the air and,
in a second, all came down with a terrible crash. A cloud of dust was
raised, and a thousand cries filled the air. Nearly all fled; a few
hurried to the ditch. Only Maria Clara and Father Salví remained in
their places without moving, both pale and silent.

When the cloud of dust had partially cleared away, Ibarra could be
seen standing among a mass of beams, bamboos, and cables, between
the windlass and the massive stone, which in its descent had shaken
and crushed everything. The young man was still holding the trowel
in his hand, his eyes staring with fright at the dead body of a man
which was lying at his feet, half buried under the timbers.

"Are you hurt?--Are you still alive? For God's sake speak!" said some
of the employees, full of terror.

"Miracle! a miracle!" cried some.

"Come and remove the body of this unfortunate man," said Ibarra,
as if awakening from a dream.

On hearing his voice, Maria Clara felt her strength giving way and
she fell, half fainting, into the arms of her friends.

Great confusion reigned. Everybody was talking, gesticulating,
and running from one side to the other, up and down the stairs,
all stupefied and full of consternation.

"Who is the dead man? Is he still alive?" asked the alferez.

The body was identified as the yellow workman who had been standing
beside the windlass.

"Let proceedings be brought against the superintendent of the work,"
was the first thing that the Alcalde said.

They examined the body, felt of the heart, but it was no longer
beating. The blow had fallen on the head and blood was oozing from
the nose, ears and mouth. Some strange marks were seen on the man's
neck. There were four deep dents on one side and a single but deeper
one on the other. It looked as though an iron hand had grasped it
like a pair of pinchers.

The priests warmly congratulated the young man and shook his hand.

"When I think that only a few moments ago I was standing there,"
said one of the employees. "Say! If I had been the last! Jesús!"

"It makes my hair stand on end," said another, who was bald.

Ibarra had departed, to ascertain the condition of Maria Clara.

"Let this not prevent the festival from continuing," said the
Alcalde. "God be praised! The dead man is neither a priest nor a
Spaniard! Your escape must be celebrated! Just think--if the stone
had fallen on you!"

"There is such a thing as a presentiment!" said the Notary. "I said
so. Señor Ibarra was reluctant to descend. I saw it!"

"Let the festival go on! Give us some music! Weeping will not bring
the dead man to life. Captain, serve warrants right here! Let the
clerk of the tribunal come. Arrest the superintendent of the work!"

"Put him in the stocks!"

"Put him in the stocks! Eh? Some music, music! Put the maestrillo in
the stocks."

"Señor Alcalde," replied Ibarra gravely, "if weeping cannot bring
the dead man back to life, neither can anything be gained by putting
a man in prison when we do not know that he is culpable. I will give
bail for him and ask that he be given liberty for some days at least."

"Well, well! But such a misfortune must not be repeated!"

All kinds of comments were circulating among the people. The theory
that it was a miracle was already accepted. Father Salví, however,
seemed to rejoice very little over the miracle, which the people
attributed to a saint of his order and of his parish.

There were some who claimed to have seen, as the crane was falling, a
figure dressed in black like the Franciscans, go down in the ditch. It
was without doubt San Diego himself. It was supposed, too, that Ibarra
had heard mass and that the yellow man had not. It was all as clear
as the light of the sun.

Ibarra went home to change his clothes.

"Hm! Bad beginning," said Old Tasio as he left the place.

Ibarra had just finished dressing when a servant announced that
a countryman was asking for him. Supposing that it was one of his
laborers, the young man ordered that they show him into his study,
which also served as a library and a chemical laboratory. But, to
his great surprise, he met the muscular figure of the mysterious Elias.

"You recently saved my life," said he in Tagalog, at once comprehending
Ibarra's movement. "I have paid you only half of the debt, and you
are not indebted to me; rather the contrary. I have come to ask a
favor of you...."

"Speak out!" replied the young man, in the same language and somewhat
surprised at the gravity of the peasant.

For some seconds, Elias looked fixedly into Ibarra's eyes and then
replied: "If human justice should ever wish to clear up this mystery,
I beg of you not to speak to any one about the warning that I gave
you in the church."

"Don't be troubled about that," replied the young man with a certain
note of displeasure in his voice. "I know that they are hunting you,
but I am no informer."

"Oh, it is not for my sake, it is not for me!" exclaimed Elias,
not without some pride. "It is for your sake. I have nothing to fear
from men."

Ibarra's surprise increased. The tone in which the countryman was
speaking was new to him and did not seem to be in accord either with
his state or his fortune.

"What do you mean?" asked Ibarra, interrogating the mysterious man
with his look.

"I do not speak in enigmas; I try to express myself clearly. For
your greater security, it is necessary that your enemies think you
unsuspecting and off your guard."

Ibarra stepped back.

"My enemies? Have I enemies?"

"All of us have, sir, all from the lowest insect to man, from the
poorest to the richest and most powerful. Enmity is the law of
life. You have enemies in the highest and in the lowest ranks. You
are planning a great undertaking; you have a past; your father, your
grandfather had enemies because they had passion. In life it is not
criminals who provoke the most hatred, but rather honorable men."

"Do you know my enemies?"

Elias did not reply at once, but meditated.

"I knew one, the one who has died," he replied. "Last night I
discovered that something was being plotted against you, through some
words that were exchanged between him and an unknown man who lost
himself in the crowd. 'The fish will not eat this one as they did
his father; you will see to-morrow,' said he. These words attracted
my attention, not only on account of their meaning but because they
were spoken by this man, who only a few days ago had presented himself
to the superintendent of the work with the express desire that he be
given charge of the work of placing the corner stone. He did not ask
for a large wage, but made a great show of his knowledge. I had no
sufficient reasons to attribute evil designs to him, but something
told me that my suspicions were right. For this reason, in order to
warn you, I chose a moment and an occasion when you could not ask me
any questions. You already know the rest."

Elias was then silent for some moments; yet Ibarra did not reply nor

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