XIX.The Fishing Party.The stars were yet brilliant in the sapphire vault, and in the branches the birds were still asleep when a merry party went through the streets of the pueblo, toward the lake, lighted by the glimmer of the pitch torches here called huepes.There were five young girls, walking rapidly, holding each other by the hand or waist, followed by several elderly ladies, and servants bearing gracefully on their heads baskets of provisions. To see these girls’ faces, laughing with youth, to judge by their abundant black hair flying free in the wind, and the ample folds of their garments, we might take them for divinities of the night fleeing at the approach of day; but they were Maria Clara and her four friends, the merry Sinang, her cousin, the calm Victoria, beautiful Iday, and pensive Neneng. They talked with animation, pinched each other, whispered in each other’s ears, and pealed out merry rounds of laughter.After a while there came to meet the party a group of young men, carrying torches of reeds. They were walking, silent, to the sound of a guitar.When the two groups met, the girls became serious and grave. The men, on the contrary, talked, laughed, and asked six questions to get half a reply.“Is the lake smooth? Do you think we shall have a fine day?” demanded the mamas.“Don’t be disturbed, señoras, I’m a splendid swimmer,”said a tall, slim fellow, a merry-looking rascal with an air of mock gravity.But they were already at the borders of the lake, and cries of delight escaped the lips of the women. They saw two great barks, bound together, picturesquely decked with garlands of flowers and various-colored festoons of fluffy drapery. Little paper lanterns hung alternating with roses, pinks, pineapples, bananas, and guavas. Rudders and oars were decorated too, and there were mats, rugs, and cushions to make comfortable seats for the ladies. In the boat, most beautifully trimmed, were a harp, guitars, accordeons, and a carabao’s horn; in the other burned a ship’s fire; and tea, coffee and salabat—a tea of ginger sweetened with honey—were making for the first breakfast.“The women here, the men there,” said the mamas, embarking; “move carefully, don’t stir the boat or we shall capsize!”“And we’re to be in here all alone?” pouted Sinang.Slowly the boats left the beach, reflecting in the mirror of the lake the many lights of their lanterns. In the east were the first streaks of dawn.Comparative silence reigned. The separation established by the ladies seemed to have dedicated youth to meditation. The water was perfectly tranquil, the fishing-grounds were near; it was soon decided to abandon the oars, and breakfast. Day had come, and the lanterns were put out.It was a beautiful morning. The light falling from the sky and reflected from the water made radiant the surface of the lake, and bathed everything in an atmosphere of clearness saturated with color, such as some marines suggest. Everybody, even the mamas, laughed and grew merry. “Do you remember, when we were girls—” they began to each other; and Maria and her young companions exchanged smiling glances.One man alone remained a stranger to this gayety—it was the helmsman. Young, of athletic build, his melancholy eyes and the severe lines of his lips gave an interest to his face, and this was heightened by his long black hair falling naturally about his muscular neck. His wrists of steel managed like a feather the large and heavy oar which served as rudder to guide the two barks.Maria Clara had several times met his eyes, but he quickly turned them away to the shores or the mountains. Pitying his solitude, she offered him some cakes. With a certain surprise he took one, refusing the others, and thanked her in a voice scarcely audible. No one else seemed to think of him.The early breakfast done, the party moved off toward the fishing enclosures. There were two, a little distance apart, both the property of Captain Tiago. In advance, a flock of white herons could be seen, some moving among the reeds, some flying here and there, skimming the water with their wings, and filling the air with their strident cries. Maria Clara followed them with her eyes, as, at the approach of the two barks, they flew away from the shore.“Do these birds have their nests in the mountains?” she asked the helmsman, less perhaps from the wish to know than to make the silent fellow talk.“Probably, señora,” he replied, “but no one has ever yet seen them.”“They have no nests, then?”“I suppose they must have; if not, they are unhappy indeed.”Maria Clara did not catch the note of sadness in his voice.“Well?”“They say, señora, that the nests of these birds are invisible,and have the power to render invisible whoever holds them; that as the soul can be seen only in the mirror of the eyes, so these nests can be seen only in the mirror of the water.”Maria Clara became pensive. But they had come to the first baklad, as the enclosures are called. The old sailor in charge attached the boats to the reeds, while his son prepared to mount with lines and nets.“Wait a moment,” cried Aunt Isabel, “the fish must come directly out of the water into the pan.”“What, good Aunt Isabel!” said Albino reproachfully, “won’t you give the poor things a moment in the air?”Andeng, Maria’s foster-sister, was a famous cook. She began to prepare rice water, the tomatoes, and the camias; the young men, perhaps to win her good graces, aided her, while the other girls arranged the melons, and cut paayap into cigarette-like strips.To while away the time Iday took up the harp, the instrument most often played in this part of the islands. She played well, and was much applauded. Maria thanked her with a kiss.“Sing, Victoria, sing the ‘Marriage Song,’” demanded the ladies. This is a beautiful Tagal elegy of married life, but sad, painting its miseries rather than its joys. The men clamored for it too, and Victoria had a lovely voice; but she was hoarse. So Maria Clara was begged to sing.“All my songs are sad,” she said.“Never mind,” said her companions, and without more urging she took the harp and sang in a rich and vibrant voice, full of feeling.The chant ceased, the harp became mute; yet no one applauded; they seemed listening still. The young girls felttheir eyes fill with tears; Ibarra seemed disturbed; the helmsman, motionless, was gazing far away.Suddenly there came a crash like thunder. The women cried out and stopped their ears. It was Albino, filling with all the force of his lungs the carabao’s horn. There needed nothing more to bring back laughter, and dry tears.“Do you wish to make us deaf, pagan?” cried Aunt Isabel.“Señora,” he replied, “I’ve heard of a poor trumpeter who, from simply playing on his instrument, became the husband of a rich and noble lady.”“So he did—the Trumpeter of Säckingen!” laughed Ibarra.“Well,” said Albino, “we shall see if I am as happy!” and he began to blow again with still more force. There was a panic: the mamas attacked him hand and foot.“Ouch! ouch!” he cried, rubbing his hurts; “the Philippines are far from the borders of the Rhine! For the same deed one is knighted, another put in the san-benito!”At last Andeng announced the kettle ready for the fish.The fisherman’s son now climbed the weir or “purse” of the enclosure. It was almost circular, a yard across, so arranged that a man could stand on top to draw out the fish with a little net or with a line.All watched him, some thinking they saw already the quiver of the little fishes and the shimmer of their silver scales.The net was drawn up; nothing in it; the line, no fish adorned it. The water fell back in a shower of drops, and laughed a silvery laugh. A cry of disappointment escaped from every mouth.“You don’t understand your business,” said Albino,climbing up by the young man; and he took the net. “Look now! Ready, Andeng!”But Albino was no better fisherman. Everybody laughed.“Don’t make a noise, you’ll drive away the fish. The net must be broken.” But every mesh was intact.“Let me try,” said Léon, the fiancée of Iday. “Are you sure no one has been here for five days?”“Absolutely sure.”“Then either the lake is enchanted or I draw out something.”He cast the line, looked annoyed, dragged the hook along in the water and murmured:“A crocodile!”“A crocodile!”The word passed from mouth to mouth amid general stupefaction.“What’s to be done?”“Capture him!”But nobody offered to go down. The water was deep.“We ought to drag him in triumph at our stern,” said Sinang; “he has eaten our fish!”“I’ve never seen a crocodile alive,” mused Maria Clara.The helmsman got up, took a rope, lithely climbed the little platform, and in spite of warning cries dived into the weir. The water, troubled an instant, became smooth; the abyss closed mysteriously.“Heaven!” cried the women, “we are going to have a catastrophe!”The water was agitated: a combat seemed to be going on below. Above, there was absolute silence. Ibarra held his blade in a convulsive grasp. Then the struggle seemed to end, and the young man’s head appeared. He was saluted with joyous cries. He climbed the platform, holding in one hand an end of the rope. Then he pulled withall his strength, and the monster came in view. The rope was round its neck and the fore part of its body; it was large, and on its back could be seen green moss—to a crocodile what white hair is to man. It bellowed like an ox, beat the reeds with its tail, crouched, and opened its jaws, black and terrifying, showing its long and saw-like teeth. No one thought of aiding the helmsman. When he had drawn the reptile out of the water he put his foot on it, closed with his robust hand the redoubtable jaws, and tried to tie the muzzle. The creature made a last effort, arched its body, beat about with its powerful tail, and escaping, plunged outside the enclosure into the lake, dragging its vanquisher after it. The helmsman was a dead man. A cry of horror escaped from every mouth.Like a flash, another body disappeared in the water. There scarce was time to see it was Ibarra’s. If Maria Clara did not faint, it was that the natives of the Philippines do not yet know how.The waters grew red. Then the young fisherman leaped in, his father followed him. But they had scarcely disappeared, when Ibarra and the helmsman came to the surface, clinging to the crocodile’s body. Its white belly was lacerated, Ibarra’s knife was in the gorge.Many arms stretched out to help the two young men from the water. The mamas, hysterical, wept, laughed, and prayed. Ibarra was unharmed. The helmsman had a slight scratch on the arm.“I owe you my life,” said he to Ibarra, who was being wrapped in mantles and rugs.“You are too intrepid,” said Ibarra. “Another time do not tempt God.”“If you had not come back!” murmured Maria Clara, pale and trembling.The ladies did not approve of going to the second baklad;to their minds the day had begun ill; there could not fail to be other misfortunes; it were better to go home.“But what misfortune have we had?” said Ibarra. “The crocodile alone has the right to complain.”At length the mamas were persuaded, and the barks took their course toward the second baklad.XX.In the Woods.There had not been much hope in this second baklad. Every one expected to find there the crocodile’s mate; but the net always came up full. The fishing ended, the boats were turned toward the shore. There was the party of the townspeople whom Ibarra had invited to meet his guests of the morning, and lunch with them under improvised tents beside a brook, in the shade of the ancient trees of the wooded peninsula. Music was resounding in the place, and water sang in the kettles. The body of the crocodile, in tow of the boats, turned from side to side; sometimes presenting its belly, white and torn, sometimes its spotted back and mossy shoulders. Man, the favorite of nature, is little disturbed by his many fratricides.The party dispersed, some going to the baths, some wandering among the trees. The silent young helmsman disappeared. A path with many windings crossed the thicket of the wood and led to the upper course of the warm brook, formed from some of the many thermal springs on the flanks of the Makiling. Along the banks of the stream grew wood flowers, many of which have no Latin names, but are none the less known to golden bugs, to butterflies, shaded, jewelled, and bronzed, and to thousands of coleopters powdered with gold and gleaming with facets of steel. The hum of these insects, the song of birds, or the dry sound of dead branches catching in their fall, alone broke the mysterious silence. Suddenly the tones of fresh, young voiceswere added to the wood notes. They seemed to come down the brook.“We shall see if I find a nest!” said a sweet and resonant voice. “I should like to see him without his seeing me. I should like to follow him everywhere.”“I don’t believe in heron’s nests,” said another voice; “but if I were in love, I should know how at once to see and to be invisible.”It was Maria Clara, Victoria, and Sinang walking in the brook. Their eyes were on the water, where they were searching for the mysterious nest. In blouses striped with dainty colors, their full bath skirts wet to the knees, outlining the graceful curves of their bodies, they moved along, seeking the impossible, meanwhile picking flowers along the banks. Soon the little stream bent its course, and the tall reeds hid the charming trio and cut off the sound of their voices.A little farther on, in the middle of the stream, was a sort of bath, well enclosed, its roof of leafy bamboo; palm leaves, flowers, and streamers decked its sides. From here, too, came girls’ voices. Farther on was a bamboo bridge, and beyond that the men were bathing, while a multitude of servants were busy plucking fowls, washing rice, roasting pigs. In the clearing on the opposite bank a group of men and women had formed under a great canvas roof, attached in part to the branches of the ancient trees, in part to pickets. There chatted the curate, the alférez, the vicar, the gobernadorcillo, the lieutenant, all the chief men of the town, including the famous orator, Captain Basilio, father of Sinang and opponent of Don Rafael Ibarra in a lawsuit not yet ended.“We dispute a point at law,” Crisóstomo had said in inviting him, “but to dispute is not to be enemies,” and the famous orator had accepted the invitation.Bottles of lemonade were opened and green cocoanut shells were broken, so that those who came from the baths might drink the fresh water; the girls were given wreaths of ylang-ylang and roses to perfume their unbound hair.The lunch hour came. The curate, the alférez, the gobernadorcillo, some captains, and the lieutenant sat at a table with Ibarra. The mamas allowed no men at the table with the girls.“Have you learned anything, señor alférez, about the criminal who attacked Brother Dámaso?” said Brother Salvi.“Of what criminal are you speaking?” asked the alférez, looking at the father over his glass of wine.“What? Why, the one who attacked Brother Dámaso on the highway day before yesterday.”“Father Dámaso has been attacked?” asked several voices.“Yes; he is in bed yet. It is thought the maker of the assault is Elias, the one who threw you into the swamp some time ago, señor alférez.”The alférez reddened with shame, if it were not from emptying his glass of wine.“But I supposed you were informed,” the curate went on; “I said to myself that the alférez of the Municipal Guard——”The officer bit his lip.At that moment a woman, pale, thin, miserably dressed, appeared, like a phantom, in the midst of the feast.“Give the poor woman something to eat,” said the ladies.She kept on toward the table where the curate was seated. He turned, recognized her, and the knife fell from his hand.“Give the woman something to eat,” ordered Ibarra.“The night is dark and the children are gone,” murmured the poor woman. But at sight of the alférez shebecame frightened and ran, disappearing among the trees.“Who is it?” demanded several voices.“Isn’t her name Sisa?” asked Ibarra with interest.“Your soldiers arrested her,” said the lieutenant to the alférez, with some bitterness; “they brought her all the way across the pueblo for some story about her sons that nobody could clear up.”“What!” demanded the alférez, turning to the curate. “It is perhaps the mother of your sacristans?”The curate nodded assent.“They have disappeared, and there hasn’t been the slightest effort to find them,” said Don Filipo severely, looking at the gobernadorcillo, who lowered his eyes.“Bring back the woman,” Crisóstomo ordered his servants.“They have disappeared, did you say?” demanded the alférez. “Your sacristans have disappeared, Father Salvi?”The curate emptied his glass and made another affirmative sign.“Ho, ho! father,” cried the alférez with a mocking laugh, rejoiced at the prospect of revenge. “Your reverence loses a few pesos, and my sergeant is routed out to find them; your two sacristans disappear, your reverence says nothing; and you also, señor gobernadorcillo, you also——”He did not finish, but broke off laughing, and buried his spoon in the red flesh of a papaw.The curate began with some confusion:“I was responsible for the money.”“Excellent reply, reverend pastor of souls!” interrupted the alférez, his mouth full. “Excellent reply, holy man!”Ibarra was on the point of interfering, but the priest recovered himself.“Do you know, señor alférez,” he asked, “what is said about the disappearance of these children? No? Then ask your soldiers.”“What!” cried the alférez, thus challenged, abandoning his mocking tone.“They say that on the night when they disappeared shots were heard in the pueblo.”“Shots?” repeated the alférez, looking at the faces around him. There were several signs of assent.Brother Salvi went on with a sarcastic smile:“Come! I see that you do not know how to arrest criminals, that you are unaware of what your soldiers do, but that you are ready to turn yourself into a preacher and teach others their duty.”“Señores,” interrupted Ibarra, seeing the alférez grow pale, “I wish to know what you think of a project I’ve formed. I should like to give the mother into the care of a good physician. I’ve promised the father to try to find his children.”The return of the servants without Sisa gave a new turn to the conversation. The luncheon was finished. While the tea and coffee were being served the guests separated into groups, the elders to play cards or chess, while the girls, curious to learn their destiny, posed questions to the “Wheel of Fortune.”“Come, Señor Ibarra!” cried Captain Basilio, a little gayer than usual; “we’ve had a case in court for fifteen years and no judge is able to solve it; let’s see if we cannot end it at chess.”“In a moment, with great pleasure,” said Ibarra; “the alférez is leaving us.”As soon as the officer had gone the men grouped around the two players. It was to be an interesting game. The elder ladies meanwhile had surrounded the curate, to talkwith him of the things of religion; but Brother Salvi seemed to judge the time unfitting and made but vague replies, his rather irritated glance being directed almost everywhere except toward his questioners.The chess players began with much solemnity.“If the game is a tie, the affair is forgotten!” said Ibarra.In the midst of the play he received a despatch. His eyes shone and he became pale, but he put the message in his pocket without opening it.“Check!” he cried. Captain Basilio had no recourse but to hide his king behind the queen.“Check!” said Ibarra, threatening with his castle.Captain Basilio asked a moment to reflect.“Willingly,” said Ibarra; “I, too, should like a moment,” and excusing himself he went toward the group round the “Wheel of Fortune.”Iday had the disc on which were the forty-eight questions, Albino the book of replies.“Ask something,” they all cried to Ibarra, as he came up. “The one who has the best answer is to receive a present from the others.”“And who has had the best so far?”“Maria Clara!” cried Sinang. “We made her ask whether her lover is constant and true, and the book said——”But Maria, all blushes, put her hand over Sinang’s mouth.“Give me the ‘Wheel’ then,” said Crisóstomo, smiling. And he asked:“Shall I succeed in my present undertaking?”“What a stupid question!” pouted Sinang.The corresponding answer was found in the book. “‘Dreams are dreams,’” read Albino.Ibarra brought out his telegram and opened it, trembling.“This time your wheel lies!” he cried. “Read!”“‘Project for school approved.’ What does that mean?” they asked.“This is my present,” said he, giving the despatch to Maria Clara. “I’m to build a school in the pueblo; the school is my offering.” And the young fellow ran back to his game of chess.After making this present to his fiancée, Ibarra was so happy that he played without reflection, and, thanks to his many false moves, the captain re-established himself, and the game was a draw. The two men shook hands with effusion.While they were thus making an end of the long and tedious suit, the sudden appearance of a sergeant and four armed guards, bayonets fixed, broke rudely in upon the merry-makers.“Whoever stirs is a dead man!” cried the sergeant.In spite of this bluster, Ibarra went up to him and asked what he wanted.“We want a criminal named Elias, who was your helmsman this morning,” replied the officer, still threatening.“A criminal? The helmsman? You must be mistaken.”“No, señor, this Elias is accused of having raised his hand against a priest. You admit questionable people to your fêtes.”Ibarra looked him over from head to foot and replied with great coldness.“I am in no way accountable to you for my actions. Every one is welcome at my fêtes.” And he turned away.The sergeant, finding he was making no headway, ordered his men to search on all sides. They had the helmsman’s description on paper.“Notice that this description answers well for nine-tenthsof the natives,” said Don Filipo; “see that you make no mistakes!”Quiet came back little by little. There were no end of questions.“So this is the Elias who threw the alférez into the swamp,” said Léon.“He’s a tulisane then?” asked Victoria, trembling.“I think not, for I know that he once fought against the tulisanes.”“He hasn’t the face of a criminal,” said Sinang.“No; but his face is very sad,” said Maria. “I did not see him smile all the morning.”The day was ending, and in the last rays of the setting sun everybody left the wood, passing in silence the tomb of Ibarra’s ancestor. Farther on conversation again became animated, gay, full of warmth, under these branches little used to merry-making. But the trees appeared sad, and the swaying bindweed seemed to say: “Adieu, youth! Adieu, dream of a day!”XXI.With the Philosopher.The next morning, Juan Crisóstomo Ibarra, after visiting his land, turned his horse toward old Tasio’s.Complete quiet reigned in the old man’s garden; scarcely did the swallows make a sound as they flew round the roof. The old walls of the house were mossy, and ivy framed the windows. It seemed the abode of silence.Ibarra tied his horse, crossed the neat garden, almost on tiptoe, and entered the open door. He found the old man in his study, surrounded by his collections of insects and leaves, his maps, manuscript, and books. He was writing, and so absorbed in his work that he did not notice the entrance of Ibarra until the young man, loath to disturb him, was leaving as quietly as he had come.“What! you were there?” he cried, looking at Crisóstomo with a certain astonishment.“Don’t disturb yourself; I see you are busy——”“I was writing a little, but it is not at all pressing. Can I be of service to you?”“Of great service,” said Ibarra, approaching; “but—you are deciphering hieroglyphics!” he exclaimed in surprise, catching sight of the old man’s work.“No, I’m writing in hieroglyphics.”“Writing in hieroglyphics? And why?” demanded the young man, doubting his senses.“So that no one can read me.”Ibarra looked at him attentively, wondering if he were not a little mad after all.“And why do you write if you do not wish to be read?”“I write not for this generation, but for future ages. If the men of to-day could read my books, they would burn them; the generation that deciphers these characters will understand, and will say: ‘Our ancestors did not all sleep.’ But you have something to ask of me, and we are talking of other things.”Ibarra drew out some papers.“I know,” he said, “that my father greatly valued your advice, and I have come to ask it for myself.”And he briefly explained his project for the school, unrolling before the stupefied philosopher plans sent from Manila. “Whom shall I consult first, in the pueblo, whose support will avail me most? You know them all, I am almost a stranger.”Old Tasio examined with tearful eyes the drawings before him.“You are going to realize my dream,” he said, greatly moved; “the dream of a poor fool. And now the first advice I give you is never to ask advice of me.”Ibarra looked at him in surprise.“Because, if you do,” he continued with bitter irony, “all sensible people will take you for a fool, too. For all sensible people think those who differ with them fools; they think me one, and I am grateful for it, because the day they see in me a reasonable being woe is me! That day I shall lose the little liberty I now enjoy at the expense of my reputation. The gobernadorcillo passes with them for a wise man because having learned nothing but to serve chocolate and to suffer the caprices of Brother Dámaso, he is now rich and has the right to trouble the life of his fellow-citizens. ‘There is a man of talent!’ says the crowd. ‘He has sprung from nothing to greatness.’ But perhapsI am really the fool and they are the wise men. Who can say?”And the old man shook his head as though to dismiss an unwelcome thought.“The second thing I advise is to consult the curate, the gobernadorcillo, all the people of position in the pueblo. They will give you bad advice, unintelligible, useless. But to ask advice is not to follow it. All you need is to make it understood that you are working in accordance with their ideas.”Ibarra reflected, then replied:“No doubt your counsel is good, but it is very hard to take. May I not offer my own ideas to the light of day? Cannot the good make its way anywhere? Has truth need of the dross of error?”“No one likes the naked truth,” replied the old man. “It is good in theory, easy in the ideal world of which youth dreams. You say you are a stranger to your country; I believe it. The day that you arrived here, you began by wounding the self-esteem of a priest. God grant this seemingly small thing has not decided your future. If it has, all your efforts will break against the convent walls, without disturbing the monk, swaying his girdle, or making his robe tremble. The alcalde, under one pretext or another, will deny you to-morrow what he grants you to-day; not a mother will let her child go to your school, and the result of all your efforts will be simply negative.”“I cannot help feeling your fears exaggerated,” said Ibarra. “In spite of all you say, I cannot believe in this power; but even admitting it to be so great, the most intelligent of the people would be on my side, and also the Government, which is animated by the best intentions, and wishes the veritable good of the Philippines.”“The Government! the Government!” murmured thephilosopher, raising his eyes. “However great its desire to better the country, however generous may have been the spirit of the Catholic kings, the Government sees, hears, judges nothing more than the curate or the provincial gives it to see, hear, or judge. The Government is convinced that its tranquillity comes through the monks; that if it is upheld, it is because they uphold it; that if it live, is it because they consent to let it, and that the day when they fail it, it will fall like a manikin that has lost its base. The monks hold the Government in hand by threatening a revolt of the people they control; the people, by displaying the power of the Government. So long as the Government has not an understanding with the country, it will not free itself from this tutelage. The Government looks to no vigorous future; it’s an arm, the head is the convent. Through its inertia, it allows itself to be dragged from abyss to abyss; its existence is no more than a shadow. Compare our system of government with the systems of countries you have visited——”“Oh!” interrupted Ibarra, “that is going far. Let us be satisfied that, thanks to religion and the humanity of our rulers, our people do not complain, do not suffer like those of other countries.”“The people do not complain because they have no voice; if they don’t revolt, it is because they are lethargic; if you say they do not suffer, it is because you have not seen their heart’s blood. But the day will come when you will see and hear. Then woe to those who base their strength on ignorance and fanaticism; woe to those who govern through falsehood, and work in the night, thinking that all sleep! When the sun’s light shows the sham of all these phantoms, there will be a frightful reaction; all this strength conserved for centuries, all this poison distilled drop by drop, all these sighs strangled, will find the light and theair. Who pay these accounts which the people from time to time present, and which History preserves for us in its bloody pages?”“God will never permit such a day to come!” replied Ibarra, impressed in spite of himself. “The Filipinos are religious, and they love Spain. There are abuses, yes, but Spain is preparing reforms to correct them; her projects are now ripening.”“I know; but the reforms which come from the head are annulled lower down, thanks to the greedy desire of officials to enrich themselves in a short time, and to the ignorance of the people, who accept everything. Abuses are not to be corrected by royal decrees, not where the liberty of speech, which permits the denunciation of petty tyrants, does not exist. Projects remain projects; abuses, abuses. Moreover, if by chance some one coming to occupy an office begins to show high and generous ideas, immediately he hears on all sides—while to his back he is held a fool: ‘Your Excellency does not know the country, Your Excellency does not know the character of the Indians, Your Excellency will ruin them, Your Excellency will do well to consult this one and that one,’ and so forth, and so on. And as in truth His Excellency does not know the country, which hitherto he had supposed to be in America, and since, like all men, he has his faults and weaknesses, he allows himself to be convinced. Don’t ask for miracles; don’t ask that he who comes here a stranger to make his fortune should interest himself in the welfare of the country. What does it mean to him, the gratitude or the execration of a people he does not know, among whom he has neither attachments nor hopes? To make glory sweet to us, its plaudits must resound in the ears of those we love, in the atmosphere of our home, of the country that is to preserve our ashes; we wish this glory seated on our tomb, to warm a little withits rays the cold of death, to keep us from being reduced to nothingness quite. But we wander from the question.”“It is true I did not come to argue this point; I came to ask advice, and you tell me to bow before grotesque idols.”“Yes, and I repeat it; you must either lower your head or lose it.”“‘Lower my head or lose it!’” repeated Ibarra, thoughtful. “The dilemma is hard. Is it impossible to reconcile love of my country and love of Spain? Must one abase himself to be a good Christian; prostitute his conscience to achieve a good work? I love my country; I love Spain; I am a Catholic, and keep pure the faith of my fathers; but I see in all this no reason for delivering myself into the hands of my enemies.”“But the field where you would sow is in the keeping of your enemies. You must begin by kissing the hand which——”Ibarra did not let him finish.“Kiss their hands! You forget that among them are those who killed my father and tore his body from the grave; but I, his son, do not forget, and if I do not avenge, it is because of my allegiance to religion!”The old philosopher lowered his eyes.“Señor Ibarra,” he said slowly, “if you are going to keep the remembrance of these things, things I cannot counsel you to forget, abandon this enterprise and find some other means of benefiting your compatriots. This work demands another man.”Ibarra saw the force of these words, but he could not give up his project. The remembrance of Maria Clara was in his heart; he must make good his offering to her.“If I go on, does your experience suggest nothing but this hard road?” he asked in a low voice.Old Tasio took his arm and led him to the window. Afresh breeze was blowing, courier of the north wind. Below lay the garden.“Why must we do as does that slender stalk, charged with buds and blossoms?” said the philosopher, pointing out a superb rose-tree. “The wind makes it tremble, and it bends, as if to hide its precious charge. If the stalk stood rigid, it would break, the wind would scatter the flowers, and the buds would die without opening. The gust of wind passed, the stalk rises again, proudly wearing her treasure. Who accuses her for having bowed to necessity? To lower the head when a ball whistles is not cowardice. What is reprehensible is defying the shot, to fall and rise no more.”“And will this sacrifice bear the fruit I seek? Will they have faith in me? Can the priest forget his own offence? Will they sincerely aid me to spread that instruction which is sure to dispute with the convents the wealth of the country? Might they not feign friendship, simulate protection, and, underneath, wound my enterprise in the heel, that it fall more promptly than if attacked face to face? Admitting your views, one might expect anything.”The old man reflected, then he said:“If this happens, if the enterprise fails, you will have the consolation of having done what you could. Something will have been gained. Your example will embolden others, who fear only to commence.”Ibarra weighed these reasonings, examined the situation, and saw that with all his pessimism the old man was right.“I believe you,” he said, grasping his hand. “It was not in vain that I came to you for counsel. I will go straight to the curate, who, after all, may be a fair-minded man. They are not all like the persecutor of my father. I go with faith in God and man.”He took leave of Tasio, mounted, and rode away, followedby the regard of the pessimistic old philosopher, who stood muttering to himself:“We shall see, we shall see how the fates unroll the drama begun in the cemetery!”This time the wise Tasio was wrong; the drama had begun long before.XXII.The Meeting at the Town Hall.It was a room of twelve or fifteen by eight or ten yards. The whitewashed walls were covered with charcoal drawings, more or less ugly, more or less decent. In the corner were a dozen old shot-guns and some rusty swords, the arms of the cuadrilleros.At one end, draped with soiled red curtains, was a portrait of His Majesty the King, and on the platform underneath an old fauteuil opened its worn arms; before this was a great table, daubed with ink, carved and cut with inscriptions and monograms, like the tables of a German students’ inn. Lame chairs and tottering benches completed the furniture.In this hall meetings were held, courts sat, tortures were inflicted. At the moment the authorities of the pueblo and its vicinity were met there. The party of the old did not mingle with the party of the young; the two represented the Conservatives and Liberals.“My friends,” Don Filipo, the chief of the Liberals, was saying to a little group, “we shall vanquish the old men this time; I’m going to present their plan myself, with exaggerations, you may imagine.”“What are you saying?” demanded his surprised auditors.“Listen,” said Don Filipo. “This morning I ran across old Tasio. He said to me: ‘Your enemies are more opposed to your person than to your ideas. Is there something youdon’t want to have go through? Propose it yourself. If it’s as desirable as a mitre, they will reject it. Then let the most modest young fellow among you present what you really want. To humiliate you, your enemies will help to carry it.’ Hush! Keep the secret.”The gobernadorcillo had come in. Conversation ceased, all took places, and silence reigned.The captain, as the gobernadorcillo is called, sat down in the chair under the king’s portrait. His look was harried. He coughed, passed his hand over his cranium, coughed again, and at length began in a failing voice:“Señores, I’ve taken the risk of convening you all—hem, hem!—because we are to celebrate, the twelfth of this month, the feast of our patron, San Diego—hem, hem!”At this point of his discourse a cough, dry and regular, reduced him to silence.Then from among the elders arose Captain Basilio:“Will your honors permit me,” said he, “to speak a word under these interesting circumstances? I speak first, though many of those present have more right than I, but the things I have to say are of such importance that they should neither be left aside nor said last, and for that reason I wish to speak first, to give them the place they merit. Your honors will, then, permit me to speak first in this assembly, where I see very distinguished people, like the señor, the present gobernadorcillo; his predecessor, my distinguished friend, Don Valentine; his other predecessor, Don Julio; our renowned captain of the cuadrilleros, Don Melchior, and so many others, whom, for brevity, I will not mention, and whom you see here present. I entreat your honors to give me the floor before any one else speaks. Am I happy enough to have the assembly accede to my humble request?” And the speaker bowed respectfully, half smiling.“You may speak, we shall hear you with pleasure!” criedhis flattering friends, who held him a great orator. The old men hemmed with satisfaction and rubbed their hands.Captain Basilio wiped the sweat from his brow and continued:“Since your honors have been so kind and complaisant toward my humble self as to grant me the right of speech before all others here present, I shall profit by this permission, so generously accorded, and I shall speak. I imagine in my imagination that I find myself in the midst of the very venerable Roman senate—senatus populusque Romanus, as we said in those good old times which, unhappily for humanity, will never come back,—and I will ask the patres conscripti—as the sage Cicero would say if he were in my place—I would ask them, since time presses, and time is golden as Solomon says, that in this important matter each one give his opinion clearly, briefly, and simply. I have done.”And satisfied with himself and with the attention of the house the orator sat down, not without directing toward his friends a look which plainly said: “Ha! Did I speak well? Ha!”“Now the floor belongs to any one who—hem!” said the gobernadorcillo, without being able to finish his sentence.To judge by the general silence, no one wished to be one of the patres conscripti. Don Filipo profited thereby and rose.The Conservatives looked at one another with significant nods and gestures.“Señores, I will present my project for the fête,” he began.“We cannot accept it!” said an uncompromising Conservative.“We vote against it!” cried another adversary.Don Filipo could not repress a smile.“We have a budget of 3,500 pesos. With this sum we can assure a fête that will surpass any we have yet seen in our own province or in others.”There were cries of “Impossible!” Such a pueblo spent 4,000 pesos; another, 5,000!“Listen, señores, and you will be convinced,” continued Don Filipo, unshaken. “I propose that in the middle of the plaza we erect a grand theatre, costing 150 pesos.”“Not enough! Say 160!”“Observe, gentlemen, 200 pesos for the theatre. I propose that arrangements be made with the Comedy Company of Tondo for seven representations, seven consecutive evenings, at 200 pesos an evening. Seven representations, at 200 pesos each, makes 1,400 pesos. Observe, señor director, 1,400 pesos.”Old and young looked at one another in surprise. Only those in the secret remained unmoved.“I further propose magnificent fireworks; not those little rockets and crackers that amuse nobody but children and old maids, but great bombs, colossal rockets. I propose, then, 200 bombs at two pesos each, and 200 rockets at the same price. Observe, señores, 1,000 pesos for bombs and——”The Conservatives could not contain themselves. They got up and conferred with one another.“And further, to show our neighbors that we are not people who must count their expenditures, I propose, first, four great preachers for the two feast days; second, that each day we throw into the lake 200 roasted fowls, 100 stuffed capons, and 50 sucking pigs, as did Sylla, contemporary of Cicero, to whom Captain Basilio alluded.”“That’s it! Like Sylla!” repeated Captain Basilio, flattered.The astonishment grew.“As many rich people will come to the fêtes, each bringing thousands of pesos and his best cocks, I propose fifteen days of the gallera, the liberty of open gaming houses——”Cries rising from all sides drowned his voice; there was a veritable tumult. The gobernadorcillo, more crushed than ever, did nothing to quell it; he waited for order to establish itself.Happily Captain Valentine, most moderate of the Conservatives, rose and said:“What the lieutenant proposes seems to us extravagant. So many bombs and so much comedy could only be proposed by a young man, like the lieutenant, who could pass all his evenings at the theatre and hear countless detonations without becoming deaf. And what of these fowls thrown into the lake? Why should we imitate Sylla and the Romans? Did they ever invite us to their fêtes? I’m an old man, and I’ve never received any summons from them!”“The Romans live at Rome with the Pope,” Captain Basilio whispered.This did not disconcert Don Valentine.“At all events,” he went on, “the project is inadmissible, impossible; it’s a folly!”Don Filipo must needs retire his project.Satisfied with the defeat of their enemy, the Conservatives were not displeased to see another young man rise, the municipal head of a group of fifty or sixty families, known as a balangay.He modestly excused himself for speaking. With delicate blandishments he referred to the “ideas so elegantly expressed by Captain Basilio,” upon which the delighted captain made signs to show him how to gesture and to change position: then he unfolded his project: to have something absolutely new, and to spend the 3,500 pesos in such a way as to benefit their own province.“That’s it!” interrupted the young men; “that’s what we want!”What did they care about seeing the King of Bohemia cut off the heads of his daughters! They were neither kings nor barbarians, and if they did such things themselves, would be hung high on the field of Bagumbayan. He proposed that two native plays be given which dealt with the manners of the times. There were two he had in mind, works of their best writers. They demanded only native costumes, and could be played by amateurs of talent, of whom the province had no lack.“A good idea!” some of the Conservatives began to murmur.“I’ll pay for the theatre!” cried Captain Basilio, with enthusiasm.“Accepted! Accepted!” cried numerous voices. The young man went on:“A part of the money taken at the theatre might be distributed in prizes: to the best pupil in the school, the best shepherd, the best fisherman. We might have boat races, and games, and fireworks, of course.”Almost all were agreed, though some talked about “innovations.”When silence was established, only the decision of the gobernadorcillo was wanting.The poor man passed his hand across his forehead, he fidgeted, he perspired; finally he stammered, lowering his eyes:“I also; I approve; but, hem!”The assembly listened in silence.“But——” demanded Captain Basilio.“I approve entirely,” repeated the functionary, “that is to say, I do not approve; I say yes, but——”He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.“But,” continued the unhappy man, coming to the point at last, “the curate wants something else.”“Is the curate to pay for the festival? Has he given even a cuarto?” cried a penetrating voice.Every one turned. It was Tasio. The lieutenant remained immovable, his eyes on the gobernadorcillo.“And what does the curate want?” demanded Don Basilio.“The curate wants six processions, three sermons, three solemn masses, and if any money is left, a comedy with songs between the acts.”“But we don’t want it!” cried the young men and some of their elders.“The curate wishes it,” repeated the gobernadorcillo, “and I’ve promised that his wishes shall be carried out.”“Then why did you call us together?” asked one, impatient.“Why didn’t you say so in the beginning?” demanded another.“I wished to, señores, but, Captain Basilio, I did not have a chance. We must obey the curate!”“We must obey!” repeated some of the Conservatives.Don Filipo approached the gobernadorcillo and said bitterly:“Isacrificedmy pride in a good cause; you sacrifice your manliness in a bad one; you spoil every good thing that might be done!”Ibarra said to the schoolmaster:“Have you any commission for the capital? I leave immediately.”On the way home the old philosopher said to Don Filipo, who was cursing his fate:“The fault is ours. You didn’t protest when they gave you a slave for mayor, and I, fool that I am, forgot about him!”
XIX.The Fishing Party.The stars were yet brilliant in the sapphire vault, and in the branches the birds were still asleep when a merry party went through the streets of the pueblo, toward the lake, lighted by the glimmer of the pitch torches here called huepes.There were five young girls, walking rapidly, holding each other by the hand or waist, followed by several elderly ladies, and servants bearing gracefully on their heads baskets of provisions. To see these girls’ faces, laughing with youth, to judge by their abundant black hair flying free in the wind, and the ample folds of their garments, we might take them for divinities of the night fleeing at the approach of day; but they were Maria Clara and her four friends, the merry Sinang, her cousin, the calm Victoria, beautiful Iday, and pensive Neneng. They talked with animation, pinched each other, whispered in each other’s ears, and pealed out merry rounds of laughter.After a while there came to meet the party a group of young men, carrying torches of reeds. They were walking, silent, to the sound of a guitar.When the two groups met, the girls became serious and grave. The men, on the contrary, talked, laughed, and asked six questions to get half a reply.“Is the lake smooth? Do you think we shall have a fine day?” demanded the mamas.“Don’t be disturbed, señoras, I’m a splendid swimmer,”said a tall, slim fellow, a merry-looking rascal with an air of mock gravity.But they were already at the borders of the lake, and cries of delight escaped the lips of the women. They saw two great barks, bound together, picturesquely decked with garlands of flowers and various-colored festoons of fluffy drapery. Little paper lanterns hung alternating with roses, pinks, pineapples, bananas, and guavas. Rudders and oars were decorated too, and there were mats, rugs, and cushions to make comfortable seats for the ladies. In the boat, most beautifully trimmed, were a harp, guitars, accordeons, and a carabao’s horn; in the other burned a ship’s fire; and tea, coffee and salabat—a tea of ginger sweetened with honey—were making for the first breakfast.“The women here, the men there,” said the mamas, embarking; “move carefully, don’t stir the boat or we shall capsize!”“And we’re to be in here all alone?” pouted Sinang.Slowly the boats left the beach, reflecting in the mirror of the lake the many lights of their lanterns. In the east were the first streaks of dawn.Comparative silence reigned. The separation established by the ladies seemed to have dedicated youth to meditation. The water was perfectly tranquil, the fishing-grounds were near; it was soon decided to abandon the oars, and breakfast. Day had come, and the lanterns were put out.It was a beautiful morning. The light falling from the sky and reflected from the water made radiant the surface of the lake, and bathed everything in an atmosphere of clearness saturated with color, such as some marines suggest. Everybody, even the mamas, laughed and grew merry. “Do you remember, when we were girls—” they began to each other; and Maria and her young companions exchanged smiling glances.One man alone remained a stranger to this gayety—it was the helmsman. Young, of athletic build, his melancholy eyes and the severe lines of his lips gave an interest to his face, and this was heightened by his long black hair falling naturally about his muscular neck. His wrists of steel managed like a feather the large and heavy oar which served as rudder to guide the two barks.Maria Clara had several times met his eyes, but he quickly turned them away to the shores or the mountains. Pitying his solitude, she offered him some cakes. With a certain surprise he took one, refusing the others, and thanked her in a voice scarcely audible. No one else seemed to think of him.The early breakfast done, the party moved off toward the fishing enclosures. There were two, a little distance apart, both the property of Captain Tiago. In advance, a flock of white herons could be seen, some moving among the reeds, some flying here and there, skimming the water with their wings, and filling the air with their strident cries. Maria Clara followed them with her eyes, as, at the approach of the two barks, they flew away from the shore.“Do these birds have their nests in the mountains?” she asked the helmsman, less perhaps from the wish to know than to make the silent fellow talk.“Probably, señora,” he replied, “but no one has ever yet seen them.”“They have no nests, then?”“I suppose they must have; if not, they are unhappy indeed.”Maria Clara did not catch the note of sadness in his voice.“Well?”“They say, señora, that the nests of these birds are invisible,and have the power to render invisible whoever holds them; that as the soul can be seen only in the mirror of the eyes, so these nests can be seen only in the mirror of the water.”Maria Clara became pensive. But they had come to the first baklad, as the enclosures are called. The old sailor in charge attached the boats to the reeds, while his son prepared to mount with lines and nets.“Wait a moment,” cried Aunt Isabel, “the fish must come directly out of the water into the pan.”“What, good Aunt Isabel!” said Albino reproachfully, “won’t you give the poor things a moment in the air?”Andeng, Maria’s foster-sister, was a famous cook. She began to prepare rice water, the tomatoes, and the camias; the young men, perhaps to win her good graces, aided her, while the other girls arranged the melons, and cut paayap into cigarette-like strips.To while away the time Iday took up the harp, the instrument most often played in this part of the islands. She played well, and was much applauded. Maria thanked her with a kiss.“Sing, Victoria, sing the ‘Marriage Song,’” demanded the ladies. This is a beautiful Tagal elegy of married life, but sad, painting its miseries rather than its joys. The men clamored for it too, and Victoria had a lovely voice; but she was hoarse. So Maria Clara was begged to sing.“All my songs are sad,” she said.“Never mind,” said her companions, and without more urging she took the harp and sang in a rich and vibrant voice, full of feeling.The chant ceased, the harp became mute; yet no one applauded; they seemed listening still. The young girls felttheir eyes fill with tears; Ibarra seemed disturbed; the helmsman, motionless, was gazing far away.Suddenly there came a crash like thunder. The women cried out and stopped their ears. It was Albino, filling with all the force of his lungs the carabao’s horn. There needed nothing more to bring back laughter, and dry tears.“Do you wish to make us deaf, pagan?” cried Aunt Isabel.“Señora,” he replied, “I’ve heard of a poor trumpeter who, from simply playing on his instrument, became the husband of a rich and noble lady.”“So he did—the Trumpeter of Säckingen!” laughed Ibarra.“Well,” said Albino, “we shall see if I am as happy!” and he began to blow again with still more force. There was a panic: the mamas attacked him hand and foot.“Ouch! ouch!” he cried, rubbing his hurts; “the Philippines are far from the borders of the Rhine! For the same deed one is knighted, another put in the san-benito!”At last Andeng announced the kettle ready for the fish.The fisherman’s son now climbed the weir or “purse” of the enclosure. It was almost circular, a yard across, so arranged that a man could stand on top to draw out the fish with a little net or with a line.All watched him, some thinking they saw already the quiver of the little fishes and the shimmer of their silver scales.The net was drawn up; nothing in it; the line, no fish adorned it. The water fell back in a shower of drops, and laughed a silvery laugh. A cry of disappointment escaped from every mouth.“You don’t understand your business,” said Albino,climbing up by the young man; and he took the net. “Look now! Ready, Andeng!”But Albino was no better fisherman. Everybody laughed.“Don’t make a noise, you’ll drive away the fish. The net must be broken.” But every mesh was intact.“Let me try,” said Léon, the fiancée of Iday. “Are you sure no one has been here for five days?”“Absolutely sure.”“Then either the lake is enchanted or I draw out something.”He cast the line, looked annoyed, dragged the hook along in the water and murmured:“A crocodile!”“A crocodile!”The word passed from mouth to mouth amid general stupefaction.“What’s to be done?”“Capture him!”But nobody offered to go down. The water was deep.“We ought to drag him in triumph at our stern,” said Sinang; “he has eaten our fish!”“I’ve never seen a crocodile alive,” mused Maria Clara.The helmsman got up, took a rope, lithely climbed the little platform, and in spite of warning cries dived into the weir. The water, troubled an instant, became smooth; the abyss closed mysteriously.“Heaven!” cried the women, “we are going to have a catastrophe!”The water was agitated: a combat seemed to be going on below. Above, there was absolute silence. Ibarra held his blade in a convulsive grasp. Then the struggle seemed to end, and the young man’s head appeared. He was saluted with joyous cries. He climbed the platform, holding in one hand an end of the rope. Then he pulled withall his strength, and the monster came in view. The rope was round its neck and the fore part of its body; it was large, and on its back could be seen green moss—to a crocodile what white hair is to man. It bellowed like an ox, beat the reeds with its tail, crouched, and opened its jaws, black and terrifying, showing its long and saw-like teeth. No one thought of aiding the helmsman. When he had drawn the reptile out of the water he put his foot on it, closed with his robust hand the redoubtable jaws, and tried to tie the muzzle. The creature made a last effort, arched its body, beat about with its powerful tail, and escaping, plunged outside the enclosure into the lake, dragging its vanquisher after it. The helmsman was a dead man. A cry of horror escaped from every mouth.Like a flash, another body disappeared in the water. There scarce was time to see it was Ibarra’s. If Maria Clara did not faint, it was that the natives of the Philippines do not yet know how.The waters grew red. Then the young fisherman leaped in, his father followed him. But they had scarcely disappeared, when Ibarra and the helmsman came to the surface, clinging to the crocodile’s body. Its white belly was lacerated, Ibarra’s knife was in the gorge.Many arms stretched out to help the two young men from the water. The mamas, hysterical, wept, laughed, and prayed. Ibarra was unharmed. The helmsman had a slight scratch on the arm.“I owe you my life,” said he to Ibarra, who was being wrapped in mantles and rugs.“You are too intrepid,” said Ibarra. “Another time do not tempt God.”“If you had not come back!” murmured Maria Clara, pale and trembling.The ladies did not approve of going to the second baklad;to their minds the day had begun ill; there could not fail to be other misfortunes; it were better to go home.“But what misfortune have we had?” said Ibarra. “The crocodile alone has the right to complain.”At length the mamas were persuaded, and the barks took their course toward the second baklad.
The stars were yet brilliant in the sapphire vault, and in the branches the birds were still asleep when a merry party went through the streets of the pueblo, toward the lake, lighted by the glimmer of the pitch torches here called huepes.
There were five young girls, walking rapidly, holding each other by the hand or waist, followed by several elderly ladies, and servants bearing gracefully on their heads baskets of provisions. To see these girls’ faces, laughing with youth, to judge by their abundant black hair flying free in the wind, and the ample folds of their garments, we might take them for divinities of the night fleeing at the approach of day; but they were Maria Clara and her four friends, the merry Sinang, her cousin, the calm Victoria, beautiful Iday, and pensive Neneng. They talked with animation, pinched each other, whispered in each other’s ears, and pealed out merry rounds of laughter.
After a while there came to meet the party a group of young men, carrying torches of reeds. They were walking, silent, to the sound of a guitar.
When the two groups met, the girls became serious and grave. The men, on the contrary, talked, laughed, and asked six questions to get half a reply.
“Is the lake smooth? Do you think we shall have a fine day?” demanded the mamas.
“Don’t be disturbed, señoras, I’m a splendid swimmer,”said a tall, slim fellow, a merry-looking rascal with an air of mock gravity.
But they were already at the borders of the lake, and cries of delight escaped the lips of the women. They saw two great barks, bound together, picturesquely decked with garlands of flowers and various-colored festoons of fluffy drapery. Little paper lanterns hung alternating with roses, pinks, pineapples, bananas, and guavas. Rudders and oars were decorated too, and there were mats, rugs, and cushions to make comfortable seats for the ladies. In the boat, most beautifully trimmed, were a harp, guitars, accordeons, and a carabao’s horn; in the other burned a ship’s fire; and tea, coffee and salabat—a tea of ginger sweetened with honey—were making for the first breakfast.
“The women here, the men there,” said the mamas, embarking; “move carefully, don’t stir the boat or we shall capsize!”
“And we’re to be in here all alone?” pouted Sinang.
Slowly the boats left the beach, reflecting in the mirror of the lake the many lights of their lanterns. In the east were the first streaks of dawn.
Comparative silence reigned. The separation established by the ladies seemed to have dedicated youth to meditation. The water was perfectly tranquil, the fishing-grounds were near; it was soon decided to abandon the oars, and breakfast. Day had come, and the lanterns were put out.
It was a beautiful morning. The light falling from the sky and reflected from the water made radiant the surface of the lake, and bathed everything in an atmosphere of clearness saturated with color, such as some marines suggest. Everybody, even the mamas, laughed and grew merry. “Do you remember, when we were girls—” they began to each other; and Maria and her young companions exchanged smiling glances.
One man alone remained a stranger to this gayety—it was the helmsman. Young, of athletic build, his melancholy eyes and the severe lines of his lips gave an interest to his face, and this was heightened by his long black hair falling naturally about his muscular neck. His wrists of steel managed like a feather the large and heavy oar which served as rudder to guide the two barks.
Maria Clara had several times met his eyes, but he quickly turned them away to the shores or the mountains. Pitying his solitude, she offered him some cakes. With a certain surprise he took one, refusing the others, and thanked her in a voice scarcely audible. No one else seemed to think of him.
The early breakfast done, the party moved off toward the fishing enclosures. There were two, a little distance apart, both the property of Captain Tiago. In advance, a flock of white herons could be seen, some moving among the reeds, some flying here and there, skimming the water with their wings, and filling the air with their strident cries. Maria Clara followed them with her eyes, as, at the approach of the two barks, they flew away from the shore.
“Do these birds have their nests in the mountains?” she asked the helmsman, less perhaps from the wish to know than to make the silent fellow talk.
“Probably, señora,” he replied, “but no one has ever yet seen them.”
“They have no nests, then?”
“I suppose they must have; if not, they are unhappy indeed.”
Maria Clara did not catch the note of sadness in his voice.
“Well?”
“They say, señora, that the nests of these birds are invisible,and have the power to render invisible whoever holds them; that as the soul can be seen only in the mirror of the eyes, so these nests can be seen only in the mirror of the water.”
Maria Clara became pensive. But they had come to the first baklad, as the enclosures are called. The old sailor in charge attached the boats to the reeds, while his son prepared to mount with lines and nets.
“Wait a moment,” cried Aunt Isabel, “the fish must come directly out of the water into the pan.”
“What, good Aunt Isabel!” said Albino reproachfully, “won’t you give the poor things a moment in the air?”
Andeng, Maria’s foster-sister, was a famous cook. She began to prepare rice water, the tomatoes, and the camias; the young men, perhaps to win her good graces, aided her, while the other girls arranged the melons, and cut paayap into cigarette-like strips.
To while away the time Iday took up the harp, the instrument most often played in this part of the islands. She played well, and was much applauded. Maria thanked her with a kiss.
“Sing, Victoria, sing the ‘Marriage Song,’” demanded the ladies. This is a beautiful Tagal elegy of married life, but sad, painting its miseries rather than its joys. The men clamored for it too, and Victoria had a lovely voice; but she was hoarse. So Maria Clara was begged to sing.
“All my songs are sad,” she said.
“Never mind,” said her companions, and without more urging she took the harp and sang in a rich and vibrant voice, full of feeling.
The chant ceased, the harp became mute; yet no one applauded; they seemed listening still. The young girls felttheir eyes fill with tears; Ibarra seemed disturbed; the helmsman, motionless, was gazing far away.
Suddenly there came a crash like thunder. The women cried out and stopped their ears. It was Albino, filling with all the force of his lungs the carabao’s horn. There needed nothing more to bring back laughter, and dry tears.
“Do you wish to make us deaf, pagan?” cried Aunt Isabel.
“Señora,” he replied, “I’ve heard of a poor trumpeter who, from simply playing on his instrument, became the husband of a rich and noble lady.”
“So he did—the Trumpeter of Säckingen!” laughed Ibarra.
“Well,” said Albino, “we shall see if I am as happy!” and he began to blow again with still more force. There was a panic: the mamas attacked him hand and foot.
“Ouch! ouch!” he cried, rubbing his hurts; “the Philippines are far from the borders of the Rhine! For the same deed one is knighted, another put in the san-benito!”
At last Andeng announced the kettle ready for the fish.
The fisherman’s son now climbed the weir or “purse” of the enclosure. It was almost circular, a yard across, so arranged that a man could stand on top to draw out the fish with a little net or with a line.
All watched him, some thinking they saw already the quiver of the little fishes and the shimmer of their silver scales.
The net was drawn up; nothing in it; the line, no fish adorned it. The water fell back in a shower of drops, and laughed a silvery laugh. A cry of disappointment escaped from every mouth.
“You don’t understand your business,” said Albino,climbing up by the young man; and he took the net. “Look now! Ready, Andeng!”
But Albino was no better fisherman. Everybody laughed.
“Don’t make a noise, you’ll drive away the fish. The net must be broken.” But every mesh was intact.
“Let me try,” said Léon, the fiancée of Iday. “Are you sure no one has been here for five days?”
“Absolutely sure.”
“Then either the lake is enchanted or I draw out something.”
He cast the line, looked annoyed, dragged the hook along in the water and murmured:
“A crocodile!”
“A crocodile!”
The word passed from mouth to mouth amid general stupefaction.
“What’s to be done?”
“Capture him!”
But nobody offered to go down. The water was deep.
“We ought to drag him in triumph at our stern,” said Sinang; “he has eaten our fish!”
“I’ve never seen a crocodile alive,” mused Maria Clara.
The helmsman got up, took a rope, lithely climbed the little platform, and in spite of warning cries dived into the weir. The water, troubled an instant, became smooth; the abyss closed mysteriously.
“Heaven!” cried the women, “we are going to have a catastrophe!”
The water was agitated: a combat seemed to be going on below. Above, there was absolute silence. Ibarra held his blade in a convulsive grasp. Then the struggle seemed to end, and the young man’s head appeared. He was saluted with joyous cries. He climbed the platform, holding in one hand an end of the rope. Then he pulled withall his strength, and the monster came in view. The rope was round its neck and the fore part of its body; it was large, and on its back could be seen green moss—to a crocodile what white hair is to man. It bellowed like an ox, beat the reeds with its tail, crouched, and opened its jaws, black and terrifying, showing its long and saw-like teeth. No one thought of aiding the helmsman. When he had drawn the reptile out of the water he put his foot on it, closed with his robust hand the redoubtable jaws, and tried to tie the muzzle. The creature made a last effort, arched its body, beat about with its powerful tail, and escaping, plunged outside the enclosure into the lake, dragging its vanquisher after it. The helmsman was a dead man. A cry of horror escaped from every mouth.
Like a flash, another body disappeared in the water. There scarce was time to see it was Ibarra’s. If Maria Clara did not faint, it was that the natives of the Philippines do not yet know how.
The waters grew red. Then the young fisherman leaped in, his father followed him. But they had scarcely disappeared, when Ibarra and the helmsman came to the surface, clinging to the crocodile’s body. Its white belly was lacerated, Ibarra’s knife was in the gorge.
Many arms stretched out to help the two young men from the water. The mamas, hysterical, wept, laughed, and prayed. Ibarra was unharmed. The helmsman had a slight scratch on the arm.
“I owe you my life,” said he to Ibarra, who was being wrapped in mantles and rugs.
“You are too intrepid,” said Ibarra. “Another time do not tempt God.”
“If you had not come back!” murmured Maria Clara, pale and trembling.
The ladies did not approve of going to the second baklad;to their minds the day had begun ill; there could not fail to be other misfortunes; it were better to go home.
“But what misfortune have we had?” said Ibarra. “The crocodile alone has the right to complain.”
At length the mamas were persuaded, and the barks took their course toward the second baklad.
XX.In the Woods.There had not been much hope in this second baklad. Every one expected to find there the crocodile’s mate; but the net always came up full. The fishing ended, the boats were turned toward the shore. There was the party of the townspeople whom Ibarra had invited to meet his guests of the morning, and lunch with them under improvised tents beside a brook, in the shade of the ancient trees of the wooded peninsula. Music was resounding in the place, and water sang in the kettles. The body of the crocodile, in tow of the boats, turned from side to side; sometimes presenting its belly, white and torn, sometimes its spotted back and mossy shoulders. Man, the favorite of nature, is little disturbed by his many fratricides.The party dispersed, some going to the baths, some wandering among the trees. The silent young helmsman disappeared. A path with many windings crossed the thicket of the wood and led to the upper course of the warm brook, formed from some of the many thermal springs on the flanks of the Makiling. Along the banks of the stream grew wood flowers, many of which have no Latin names, but are none the less known to golden bugs, to butterflies, shaded, jewelled, and bronzed, and to thousands of coleopters powdered with gold and gleaming with facets of steel. The hum of these insects, the song of birds, or the dry sound of dead branches catching in their fall, alone broke the mysterious silence. Suddenly the tones of fresh, young voiceswere added to the wood notes. They seemed to come down the brook.“We shall see if I find a nest!” said a sweet and resonant voice. “I should like to see him without his seeing me. I should like to follow him everywhere.”“I don’t believe in heron’s nests,” said another voice; “but if I were in love, I should know how at once to see and to be invisible.”It was Maria Clara, Victoria, and Sinang walking in the brook. Their eyes were on the water, where they were searching for the mysterious nest. In blouses striped with dainty colors, their full bath skirts wet to the knees, outlining the graceful curves of their bodies, they moved along, seeking the impossible, meanwhile picking flowers along the banks. Soon the little stream bent its course, and the tall reeds hid the charming trio and cut off the sound of their voices.A little farther on, in the middle of the stream, was a sort of bath, well enclosed, its roof of leafy bamboo; palm leaves, flowers, and streamers decked its sides. From here, too, came girls’ voices. Farther on was a bamboo bridge, and beyond that the men were bathing, while a multitude of servants were busy plucking fowls, washing rice, roasting pigs. In the clearing on the opposite bank a group of men and women had formed under a great canvas roof, attached in part to the branches of the ancient trees, in part to pickets. There chatted the curate, the alférez, the vicar, the gobernadorcillo, the lieutenant, all the chief men of the town, including the famous orator, Captain Basilio, father of Sinang and opponent of Don Rafael Ibarra in a lawsuit not yet ended.“We dispute a point at law,” Crisóstomo had said in inviting him, “but to dispute is not to be enemies,” and the famous orator had accepted the invitation.Bottles of lemonade were opened and green cocoanut shells were broken, so that those who came from the baths might drink the fresh water; the girls were given wreaths of ylang-ylang and roses to perfume their unbound hair.The lunch hour came. The curate, the alférez, the gobernadorcillo, some captains, and the lieutenant sat at a table with Ibarra. The mamas allowed no men at the table with the girls.“Have you learned anything, señor alférez, about the criminal who attacked Brother Dámaso?” said Brother Salvi.“Of what criminal are you speaking?” asked the alférez, looking at the father over his glass of wine.“What? Why, the one who attacked Brother Dámaso on the highway day before yesterday.”“Father Dámaso has been attacked?” asked several voices.“Yes; he is in bed yet. It is thought the maker of the assault is Elias, the one who threw you into the swamp some time ago, señor alférez.”The alférez reddened with shame, if it were not from emptying his glass of wine.“But I supposed you were informed,” the curate went on; “I said to myself that the alférez of the Municipal Guard——”The officer bit his lip.At that moment a woman, pale, thin, miserably dressed, appeared, like a phantom, in the midst of the feast.“Give the poor woman something to eat,” said the ladies.She kept on toward the table where the curate was seated. He turned, recognized her, and the knife fell from his hand.“Give the woman something to eat,” ordered Ibarra.“The night is dark and the children are gone,” murmured the poor woman. But at sight of the alférez shebecame frightened and ran, disappearing among the trees.“Who is it?” demanded several voices.“Isn’t her name Sisa?” asked Ibarra with interest.“Your soldiers arrested her,” said the lieutenant to the alférez, with some bitterness; “they brought her all the way across the pueblo for some story about her sons that nobody could clear up.”“What!” demanded the alférez, turning to the curate. “It is perhaps the mother of your sacristans?”The curate nodded assent.“They have disappeared, and there hasn’t been the slightest effort to find them,” said Don Filipo severely, looking at the gobernadorcillo, who lowered his eyes.“Bring back the woman,” Crisóstomo ordered his servants.“They have disappeared, did you say?” demanded the alférez. “Your sacristans have disappeared, Father Salvi?”The curate emptied his glass and made another affirmative sign.“Ho, ho! father,” cried the alférez with a mocking laugh, rejoiced at the prospect of revenge. “Your reverence loses a few pesos, and my sergeant is routed out to find them; your two sacristans disappear, your reverence says nothing; and you also, señor gobernadorcillo, you also——”He did not finish, but broke off laughing, and buried his spoon in the red flesh of a papaw.The curate began with some confusion:“I was responsible for the money.”“Excellent reply, reverend pastor of souls!” interrupted the alférez, his mouth full. “Excellent reply, holy man!”Ibarra was on the point of interfering, but the priest recovered himself.“Do you know, señor alférez,” he asked, “what is said about the disappearance of these children? No? Then ask your soldiers.”“What!” cried the alférez, thus challenged, abandoning his mocking tone.“They say that on the night when they disappeared shots were heard in the pueblo.”“Shots?” repeated the alférez, looking at the faces around him. There were several signs of assent.Brother Salvi went on with a sarcastic smile:“Come! I see that you do not know how to arrest criminals, that you are unaware of what your soldiers do, but that you are ready to turn yourself into a preacher and teach others their duty.”“Señores,” interrupted Ibarra, seeing the alférez grow pale, “I wish to know what you think of a project I’ve formed. I should like to give the mother into the care of a good physician. I’ve promised the father to try to find his children.”The return of the servants without Sisa gave a new turn to the conversation. The luncheon was finished. While the tea and coffee were being served the guests separated into groups, the elders to play cards or chess, while the girls, curious to learn their destiny, posed questions to the “Wheel of Fortune.”“Come, Señor Ibarra!” cried Captain Basilio, a little gayer than usual; “we’ve had a case in court for fifteen years and no judge is able to solve it; let’s see if we cannot end it at chess.”“In a moment, with great pleasure,” said Ibarra; “the alférez is leaving us.”As soon as the officer had gone the men grouped around the two players. It was to be an interesting game. The elder ladies meanwhile had surrounded the curate, to talkwith him of the things of religion; but Brother Salvi seemed to judge the time unfitting and made but vague replies, his rather irritated glance being directed almost everywhere except toward his questioners.The chess players began with much solemnity.“If the game is a tie, the affair is forgotten!” said Ibarra.In the midst of the play he received a despatch. His eyes shone and he became pale, but he put the message in his pocket without opening it.“Check!” he cried. Captain Basilio had no recourse but to hide his king behind the queen.“Check!” said Ibarra, threatening with his castle.Captain Basilio asked a moment to reflect.“Willingly,” said Ibarra; “I, too, should like a moment,” and excusing himself he went toward the group round the “Wheel of Fortune.”Iday had the disc on which were the forty-eight questions, Albino the book of replies.“Ask something,” they all cried to Ibarra, as he came up. “The one who has the best answer is to receive a present from the others.”“And who has had the best so far?”“Maria Clara!” cried Sinang. “We made her ask whether her lover is constant and true, and the book said——”But Maria, all blushes, put her hand over Sinang’s mouth.“Give me the ‘Wheel’ then,” said Crisóstomo, smiling. And he asked:“Shall I succeed in my present undertaking?”“What a stupid question!” pouted Sinang.The corresponding answer was found in the book. “‘Dreams are dreams,’” read Albino.Ibarra brought out his telegram and opened it, trembling.“This time your wheel lies!” he cried. “Read!”“‘Project for school approved.’ What does that mean?” they asked.“This is my present,” said he, giving the despatch to Maria Clara. “I’m to build a school in the pueblo; the school is my offering.” And the young fellow ran back to his game of chess.After making this present to his fiancée, Ibarra was so happy that he played without reflection, and, thanks to his many false moves, the captain re-established himself, and the game was a draw. The two men shook hands with effusion.While they were thus making an end of the long and tedious suit, the sudden appearance of a sergeant and four armed guards, bayonets fixed, broke rudely in upon the merry-makers.“Whoever stirs is a dead man!” cried the sergeant.In spite of this bluster, Ibarra went up to him and asked what he wanted.“We want a criminal named Elias, who was your helmsman this morning,” replied the officer, still threatening.“A criminal? The helmsman? You must be mistaken.”“No, señor, this Elias is accused of having raised his hand against a priest. You admit questionable people to your fêtes.”Ibarra looked him over from head to foot and replied with great coldness.“I am in no way accountable to you for my actions. Every one is welcome at my fêtes.” And he turned away.The sergeant, finding he was making no headway, ordered his men to search on all sides. They had the helmsman’s description on paper.“Notice that this description answers well for nine-tenthsof the natives,” said Don Filipo; “see that you make no mistakes!”Quiet came back little by little. There were no end of questions.“So this is the Elias who threw the alférez into the swamp,” said Léon.“He’s a tulisane then?” asked Victoria, trembling.“I think not, for I know that he once fought against the tulisanes.”“He hasn’t the face of a criminal,” said Sinang.“No; but his face is very sad,” said Maria. “I did not see him smile all the morning.”The day was ending, and in the last rays of the setting sun everybody left the wood, passing in silence the tomb of Ibarra’s ancestor. Farther on conversation again became animated, gay, full of warmth, under these branches little used to merry-making. But the trees appeared sad, and the swaying bindweed seemed to say: “Adieu, youth! Adieu, dream of a day!”
There had not been much hope in this second baklad. Every one expected to find there the crocodile’s mate; but the net always came up full. The fishing ended, the boats were turned toward the shore. There was the party of the townspeople whom Ibarra had invited to meet his guests of the morning, and lunch with them under improvised tents beside a brook, in the shade of the ancient trees of the wooded peninsula. Music was resounding in the place, and water sang in the kettles. The body of the crocodile, in tow of the boats, turned from side to side; sometimes presenting its belly, white and torn, sometimes its spotted back and mossy shoulders. Man, the favorite of nature, is little disturbed by his many fratricides.
The party dispersed, some going to the baths, some wandering among the trees. The silent young helmsman disappeared. A path with many windings crossed the thicket of the wood and led to the upper course of the warm brook, formed from some of the many thermal springs on the flanks of the Makiling. Along the banks of the stream grew wood flowers, many of which have no Latin names, but are none the less known to golden bugs, to butterflies, shaded, jewelled, and bronzed, and to thousands of coleopters powdered with gold and gleaming with facets of steel. The hum of these insects, the song of birds, or the dry sound of dead branches catching in their fall, alone broke the mysterious silence. Suddenly the tones of fresh, young voiceswere added to the wood notes. They seemed to come down the brook.
“We shall see if I find a nest!” said a sweet and resonant voice. “I should like to see him without his seeing me. I should like to follow him everywhere.”
“I don’t believe in heron’s nests,” said another voice; “but if I were in love, I should know how at once to see and to be invisible.”
It was Maria Clara, Victoria, and Sinang walking in the brook. Their eyes were on the water, where they were searching for the mysterious nest. In blouses striped with dainty colors, their full bath skirts wet to the knees, outlining the graceful curves of their bodies, they moved along, seeking the impossible, meanwhile picking flowers along the banks. Soon the little stream bent its course, and the tall reeds hid the charming trio and cut off the sound of their voices.
A little farther on, in the middle of the stream, was a sort of bath, well enclosed, its roof of leafy bamboo; palm leaves, flowers, and streamers decked its sides. From here, too, came girls’ voices. Farther on was a bamboo bridge, and beyond that the men were bathing, while a multitude of servants were busy plucking fowls, washing rice, roasting pigs. In the clearing on the opposite bank a group of men and women had formed under a great canvas roof, attached in part to the branches of the ancient trees, in part to pickets. There chatted the curate, the alférez, the vicar, the gobernadorcillo, the lieutenant, all the chief men of the town, including the famous orator, Captain Basilio, father of Sinang and opponent of Don Rafael Ibarra in a lawsuit not yet ended.
“We dispute a point at law,” Crisóstomo had said in inviting him, “but to dispute is not to be enemies,” and the famous orator had accepted the invitation.
Bottles of lemonade were opened and green cocoanut shells were broken, so that those who came from the baths might drink the fresh water; the girls were given wreaths of ylang-ylang and roses to perfume their unbound hair.
The lunch hour came. The curate, the alférez, the gobernadorcillo, some captains, and the lieutenant sat at a table with Ibarra. The mamas allowed no men at the table with the girls.
“Have you learned anything, señor alférez, about the criminal who attacked Brother Dámaso?” said Brother Salvi.
“Of what criminal are you speaking?” asked the alférez, looking at the father over his glass of wine.
“What? Why, the one who attacked Brother Dámaso on the highway day before yesterday.”
“Father Dámaso has been attacked?” asked several voices.
“Yes; he is in bed yet. It is thought the maker of the assault is Elias, the one who threw you into the swamp some time ago, señor alférez.”
The alférez reddened with shame, if it were not from emptying his glass of wine.
“But I supposed you were informed,” the curate went on; “I said to myself that the alférez of the Municipal Guard——”
The officer bit his lip.
At that moment a woman, pale, thin, miserably dressed, appeared, like a phantom, in the midst of the feast.
“Give the poor woman something to eat,” said the ladies.
She kept on toward the table where the curate was seated. He turned, recognized her, and the knife fell from his hand.
“Give the woman something to eat,” ordered Ibarra.
“The night is dark and the children are gone,” murmured the poor woman. But at sight of the alférez shebecame frightened and ran, disappearing among the trees.
“Who is it?” demanded several voices.
“Isn’t her name Sisa?” asked Ibarra with interest.
“Your soldiers arrested her,” said the lieutenant to the alférez, with some bitterness; “they brought her all the way across the pueblo for some story about her sons that nobody could clear up.”
“What!” demanded the alférez, turning to the curate. “It is perhaps the mother of your sacristans?”
The curate nodded assent.
“They have disappeared, and there hasn’t been the slightest effort to find them,” said Don Filipo severely, looking at the gobernadorcillo, who lowered his eyes.
“Bring back the woman,” Crisóstomo ordered his servants.
“They have disappeared, did you say?” demanded the alférez. “Your sacristans have disappeared, Father Salvi?”
The curate emptied his glass and made another affirmative sign.
“Ho, ho! father,” cried the alférez with a mocking laugh, rejoiced at the prospect of revenge. “Your reverence loses a few pesos, and my sergeant is routed out to find them; your two sacristans disappear, your reverence says nothing; and you also, señor gobernadorcillo, you also——”
He did not finish, but broke off laughing, and buried his spoon in the red flesh of a papaw.
The curate began with some confusion:
“I was responsible for the money.”
“Excellent reply, reverend pastor of souls!” interrupted the alférez, his mouth full. “Excellent reply, holy man!”
Ibarra was on the point of interfering, but the priest recovered himself.
“Do you know, señor alférez,” he asked, “what is said about the disappearance of these children? No? Then ask your soldiers.”
“What!” cried the alférez, thus challenged, abandoning his mocking tone.
“They say that on the night when they disappeared shots were heard in the pueblo.”
“Shots?” repeated the alférez, looking at the faces around him. There were several signs of assent.
Brother Salvi went on with a sarcastic smile:
“Come! I see that you do not know how to arrest criminals, that you are unaware of what your soldiers do, but that you are ready to turn yourself into a preacher and teach others their duty.”
“Señores,” interrupted Ibarra, seeing the alférez grow pale, “I wish to know what you think of a project I’ve formed. I should like to give the mother into the care of a good physician. I’ve promised the father to try to find his children.”
The return of the servants without Sisa gave a new turn to the conversation. The luncheon was finished. While the tea and coffee were being served the guests separated into groups, the elders to play cards or chess, while the girls, curious to learn their destiny, posed questions to the “Wheel of Fortune.”
“Come, Señor Ibarra!” cried Captain Basilio, a little gayer than usual; “we’ve had a case in court for fifteen years and no judge is able to solve it; let’s see if we cannot end it at chess.”
“In a moment, with great pleasure,” said Ibarra; “the alférez is leaving us.”
As soon as the officer had gone the men grouped around the two players. It was to be an interesting game. The elder ladies meanwhile had surrounded the curate, to talkwith him of the things of religion; but Brother Salvi seemed to judge the time unfitting and made but vague replies, his rather irritated glance being directed almost everywhere except toward his questioners.
The chess players began with much solemnity.
“If the game is a tie, the affair is forgotten!” said Ibarra.
In the midst of the play he received a despatch. His eyes shone and he became pale, but he put the message in his pocket without opening it.
“Check!” he cried. Captain Basilio had no recourse but to hide his king behind the queen.
“Check!” said Ibarra, threatening with his castle.
Captain Basilio asked a moment to reflect.
“Willingly,” said Ibarra; “I, too, should like a moment,” and excusing himself he went toward the group round the “Wheel of Fortune.”
Iday had the disc on which were the forty-eight questions, Albino the book of replies.
“Ask something,” they all cried to Ibarra, as he came up. “The one who has the best answer is to receive a present from the others.”
“And who has had the best so far?”
“Maria Clara!” cried Sinang. “We made her ask whether her lover is constant and true, and the book said——”
But Maria, all blushes, put her hand over Sinang’s mouth.
“Give me the ‘Wheel’ then,” said Crisóstomo, smiling. And he asked:
“Shall I succeed in my present undertaking?”
“What a stupid question!” pouted Sinang.
The corresponding answer was found in the book. “‘Dreams are dreams,’” read Albino.
Ibarra brought out his telegram and opened it, trembling.
“This time your wheel lies!” he cried. “Read!”
“‘Project for school approved.’ What does that mean?” they asked.
“This is my present,” said he, giving the despatch to Maria Clara. “I’m to build a school in the pueblo; the school is my offering.” And the young fellow ran back to his game of chess.
After making this present to his fiancée, Ibarra was so happy that he played without reflection, and, thanks to his many false moves, the captain re-established himself, and the game was a draw. The two men shook hands with effusion.
While they were thus making an end of the long and tedious suit, the sudden appearance of a sergeant and four armed guards, bayonets fixed, broke rudely in upon the merry-makers.
“Whoever stirs is a dead man!” cried the sergeant.
In spite of this bluster, Ibarra went up to him and asked what he wanted.
“We want a criminal named Elias, who was your helmsman this morning,” replied the officer, still threatening.
“A criminal? The helmsman? You must be mistaken.”
“No, señor, this Elias is accused of having raised his hand against a priest. You admit questionable people to your fêtes.”
Ibarra looked him over from head to foot and replied with great coldness.
“I am in no way accountable to you for my actions. Every one is welcome at my fêtes.” And he turned away.
The sergeant, finding he was making no headway, ordered his men to search on all sides. They had the helmsman’s description on paper.
“Notice that this description answers well for nine-tenthsof the natives,” said Don Filipo; “see that you make no mistakes!”
Quiet came back little by little. There were no end of questions.
“So this is the Elias who threw the alférez into the swamp,” said Léon.
“He’s a tulisane then?” asked Victoria, trembling.
“I think not, for I know that he once fought against the tulisanes.”
“He hasn’t the face of a criminal,” said Sinang.
“No; but his face is very sad,” said Maria. “I did not see him smile all the morning.”
The day was ending, and in the last rays of the setting sun everybody left the wood, passing in silence the tomb of Ibarra’s ancestor. Farther on conversation again became animated, gay, full of warmth, under these branches little used to merry-making. But the trees appeared sad, and the swaying bindweed seemed to say: “Adieu, youth! Adieu, dream of a day!”
XXI.With the Philosopher.The next morning, Juan Crisóstomo Ibarra, after visiting his land, turned his horse toward old Tasio’s.Complete quiet reigned in the old man’s garden; scarcely did the swallows make a sound as they flew round the roof. The old walls of the house were mossy, and ivy framed the windows. It seemed the abode of silence.Ibarra tied his horse, crossed the neat garden, almost on tiptoe, and entered the open door. He found the old man in his study, surrounded by his collections of insects and leaves, his maps, manuscript, and books. He was writing, and so absorbed in his work that he did not notice the entrance of Ibarra until the young man, loath to disturb him, was leaving as quietly as he had come.“What! you were there?” he cried, looking at Crisóstomo with a certain astonishment.“Don’t disturb yourself; I see you are busy——”“I was writing a little, but it is not at all pressing. Can I be of service to you?”“Of great service,” said Ibarra, approaching; “but—you are deciphering hieroglyphics!” he exclaimed in surprise, catching sight of the old man’s work.“No, I’m writing in hieroglyphics.”“Writing in hieroglyphics? And why?” demanded the young man, doubting his senses.“So that no one can read me.”Ibarra looked at him attentively, wondering if he were not a little mad after all.“And why do you write if you do not wish to be read?”“I write not for this generation, but for future ages. If the men of to-day could read my books, they would burn them; the generation that deciphers these characters will understand, and will say: ‘Our ancestors did not all sleep.’ But you have something to ask of me, and we are talking of other things.”Ibarra drew out some papers.“I know,” he said, “that my father greatly valued your advice, and I have come to ask it for myself.”And he briefly explained his project for the school, unrolling before the stupefied philosopher plans sent from Manila. “Whom shall I consult first, in the pueblo, whose support will avail me most? You know them all, I am almost a stranger.”Old Tasio examined with tearful eyes the drawings before him.“You are going to realize my dream,” he said, greatly moved; “the dream of a poor fool. And now the first advice I give you is never to ask advice of me.”Ibarra looked at him in surprise.“Because, if you do,” he continued with bitter irony, “all sensible people will take you for a fool, too. For all sensible people think those who differ with them fools; they think me one, and I am grateful for it, because the day they see in me a reasonable being woe is me! That day I shall lose the little liberty I now enjoy at the expense of my reputation. The gobernadorcillo passes with them for a wise man because having learned nothing but to serve chocolate and to suffer the caprices of Brother Dámaso, he is now rich and has the right to trouble the life of his fellow-citizens. ‘There is a man of talent!’ says the crowd. ‘He has sprung from nothing to greatness.’ But perhapsI am really the fool and they are the wise men. Who can say?”And the old man shook his head as though to dismiss an unwelcome thought.“The second thing I advise is to consult the curate, the gobernadorcillo, all the people of position in the pueblo. They will give you bad advice, unintelligible, useless. But to ask advice is not to follow it. All you need is to make it understood that you are working in accordance with their ideas.”Ibarra reflected, then replied:“No doubt your counsel is good, but it is very hard to take. May I not offer my own ideas to the light of day? Cannot the good make its way anywhere? Has truth need of the dross of error?”“No one likes the naked truth,” replied the old man. “It is good in theory, easy in the ideal world of which youth dreams. You say you are a stranger to your country; I believe it. The day that you arrived here, you began by wounding the self-esteem of a priest. God grant this seemingly small thing has not decided your future. If it has, all your efforts will break against the convent walls, without disturbing the monk, swaying his girdle, or making his robe tremble. The alcalde, under one pretext or another, will deny you to-morrow what he grants you to-day; not a mother will let her child go to your school, and the result of all your efforts will be simply negative.”“I cannot help feeling your fears exaggerated,” said Ibarra. “In spite of all you say, I cannot believe in this power; but even admitting it to be so great, the most intelligent of the people would be on my side, and also the Government, which is animated by the best intentions, and wishes the veritable good of the Philippines.”“The Government! the Government!” murmured thephilosopher, raising his eyes. “However great its desire to better the country, however generous may have been the spirit of the Catholic kings, the Government sees, hears, judges nothing more than the curate or the provincial gives it to see, hear, or judge. The Government is convinced that its tranquillity comes through the monks; that if it is upheld, it is because they uphold it; that if it live, is it because they consent to let it, and that the day when they fail it, it will fall like a manikin that has lost its base. The monks hold the Government in hand by threatening a revolt of the people they control; the people, by displaying the power of the Government. So long as the Government has not an understanding with the country, it will not free itself from this tutelage. The Government looks to no vigorous future; it’s an arm, the head is the convent. Through its inertia, it allows itself to be dragged from abyss to abyss; its existence is no more than a shadow. Compare our system of government with the systems of countries you have visited——”“Oh!” interrupted Ibarra, “that is going far. Let us be satisfied that, thanks to religion and the humanity of our rulers, our people do not complain, do not suffer like those of other countries.”“The people do not complain because they have no voice; if they don’t revolt, it is because they are lethargic; if you say they do not suffer, it is because you have not seen their heart’s blood. But the day will come when you will see and hear. Then woe to those who base their strength on ignorance and fanaticism; woe to those who govern through falsehood, and work in the night, thinking that all sleep! When the sun’s light shows the sham of all these phantoms, there will be a frightful reaction; all this strength conserved for centuries, all this poison distilled drop by drop, all these sighs strangled, will find the light and theair. Who pay these accounts which the people from time to time present, and which History preserves for us in its bloody pages?”“God will never permit such a day to come!” replied Ibarra, impressed in spite of himself. “The Filipinos are religious, and they love Spain. There are abuses, yes, but Spain is preparing reforms to correct them; her projects are now ripening.”“I know; but the reforms which come from the head are annulled lower down, thanks to the greedy desire of officials to enrich themselves in a short time, and to the ignorance of the people, who accept everything. Abuses are not to be corrected by royal decrees, not where the liberty of speech, which permits the denunciation of petty tyrants, does not exist. Projects remain projects; abuses, abuses. Moreover, if by chance some one coming to occupy an office begins to show high and generous ideas, immediately he hears on all sides—while to his back he is held a fool: ‘Your Excellency does not know the country, Your Excellency does not know the character of the Indians, Your Excellency will ruin them, Your Excellency will do well to consult this one and that one,’ and so forth, and so on. And as in truth His Excellency does not know the country, which hitherto he had supposed to be in America, and since, like all men, he has his faults and weaknesses, he allows himself to be convinced. Don’t ask for miracles; don’t ask that he who comes here a stranger to make his fortune should interest himself in the welfare of the country. What does it mean to him, the gratitude or the execration of a people he does not know, among whom he has neither attachments nor hopes? To make glory sweet to us, its plaudits must resound in the ears of those we love, in the atmosphere of our home, of the country that is to preserve our ashes; we wish this glory seated on our tomb, to warm a little withits rays the cold of death, to keep us from being reduced to nothingness quite. But we wander from the question.”“It is true I did not come to argue this point; I came to ask advice, and you tell me to bow before grotesque idols.”“Yes, and I repeat it; you must either lower your head or lose it.”“‘Lower my head or lose it!’” repeated Ibarra, thoughtful. “The dilemma is hard. Is it impossible to reconcile love of my country and love of Spain? Must one abase himself to be a good Christian; prostitute his conscience to achieve a good work? I love my country; I love Spain; I am a Catholic, and keep pure the faith of my fathers; but I see in all this no reason for delivering myself into the hands of my enemies.”“But the field where you would sow is in the keeping of your enemies. You must begin by kissing the hand which——”Ibarra did not let him finish.“Kiss their hands! You forget that among them are those who killed my father and tore his body from the grave; but I, his son, do not forget, and if I do not avenge, it is because of my allegiance to religion!”The old philosopher lowered his eyes.“Señor Ibarra,” he said slowly, “if you are going to keep the remembrance of these things, things I cannot counsel you to forget, abandon this enterprise and find some other means of benefiting your compatriots. This work demands another man.”Ibarra saw the force of these words, but he could not give up his project. The remembrance of Maria Clara was in his heart; he must make good his offering to her.“If I go on, does your experience suggest nothing but this hard road?” he asked in a low voice.Old Tasio took his arm and led him to the window. Afresh breeze was blowing, courier of the north wind. Below lay the garden.“Why must we do as does that slender stalk, charged with buds and blossoms?” said the philosopher, pointing out a superb rose-tree. “The wind makes it tremble, and it bends, as if to hide its precious charge. If the stalk stood rigid, it would break, the wind would scatter the flowers, and the buds would die without opening. The gust of wind passed, the stalk rises again, proudly wearing her treasure. Who accuses her for having bowed to necessity? To lower the head when a ball whistles is not cowardice. What is reprehensible is defying the shot, to fall and rise no more.”“And will this sacrifice bear the fruit I seek? Will they have faith in me? Can the priest forget his own offence? Will they sincerely aid me to spread that instruction which is sure to dispute with the convents the wealth of the country? Might they not feign friendship, simulate protection, and, underneath, wound my enterprise in the heel, that it fall more promptly than if attacked face to face? Admitting your views, one might expect anything.”The old man reflected, then he said:“If this happens, if the enterprise fails, you will have the consolation of having done what you could. Something will have been gained. Your example will embolden others, who fear only to commence.”Ibarra weighed these reasonings, examined the situation, and saw that with all his pessimism the old man was right.“I believe you,” he said, grasping his hand. “It was not in vain that I came to you for counsel. I will go straight to the curate, who, after all, may be a fair-minded man. They are not all like the persecutor of my father. I go with faith in God and man.”He took leave of Tasio, mounted, and rode away, followedby the regard of the pessimistic old philosopher, who stood muttering to himself:“We shall see, we shall see how the fates unroll the drama begun in the cemetery!”This time the wise Tasio was wrong; the drama had begun long before.
The next morning, Juan Crisóstomo Ibarra, after visiting his land, turned his horse toward old Tasio’s.
Complete quiet reigned in the old man’s garden; scarcely did the swallows make a sound as they flew round the roof. The old walls of the house were mossy, and ivy framed the windows. It seemed the abode of silence.
Ibarra tied his horse, crossed the neat garden, almost on tiptoe, and entered the open door. He found the old man in his study, surrounded by his collections of insects and leaves, his maps, manuscript, and books. He was writing, and so absorbed in his work that he did not notice the entrance of Ibarra until the young man, loath to disturb him, was leaving as quietly as he had come.
“What! you were there?” he cried, looking at Crisóstomo with a certain astonishment.
“Don’t disturb yourself; I see you are busy——”
“I was writing a little, but it is not at all pressing. Can I be of service to you?”
“Of great service,” said Ibarra, approaching; “but—you are deciphering hieroglyphics!” he exclaimed in surprise, catching sight of the old man’s work.
“No, I’m writing in hieroglyphics.”
“Writing in hieroglyphics? And why?” demanded the young man, doubting his senses.
“So that no one can read me.”
Ibarra looked at him attentively, wondering if he were not a little mad after all.
“And why do you write if you do not wish to be read?”
“I write not for this generation, but for future ages. If the men of to-day could read my books, they would burn them; the generation that deciphers these characters will understand, and will say: ‘Our ancestors did not all sleep.’ But you have something to ask of me, and we are talking of other things.”
Ibarra drew out some papers.
“I know,” he said, “that my father greatly valued your advice, and I have come to ask it for myself.”
And he briefly explained his project for the school, unrolling before the stupefied philosopher plans sent from Manila. “Whom shall I consult first, in the pueblo, whose support will avail me most? You know them all, I am almost a stranger.”
Old Tasio examined with tearful eyes the drawings before him.
“You are going to realize my dream,” he said, greatly moved; “the dream of a poor fool. And now the first advice I give you is never to ask advice of me.”
Ibarra looked at him in surprise.
“Because, if you do,” he continued with bitter irony, “all sensible people will take you for a fool, too. For all sensible people think those who differ with them fools; they think me one, and I am grateful for it, because the day they see in me a reasonable being woe is me! That day I shall lose the little liberty I now enjoy at the expense of my reputation. The gobernadorcillo passes with them for a wise man because having learned nothing but to serve chocolate and to suffer the caprices of Brother Dámaso, he is now rich and has the right to trouble the life of his fellow-citizens. ‘There is a man of talent!’ says the crowd. ‘He has sprung from nothing to greatness.’ But perhapsI am really the fool and they are the wise men. Who can say?”
And the old man shook his head as though to dismiss an unwelcome thought.
“The second thing I advise is to consult the curate, the gobernadorcillo, all the people of position in the pueblo. They will give you bad advice, unintelligible, useless. But to ask advice is not to follow it. All you need is to make it understood that you are working in accordance with their ideas.”
Ibarra reflected, then replied:
“No doubt your counsel is good, but it is very hard to take. May I not offer my own ideas to the light of day? Cannot the good make its way anywhere? Has truth need of the dross of error?”
“No one likes the naked truth,” replied the old man. “It is good in theory, easy in the ideal world of which youth dreams. You say you are a stranger to your country; I believe it. The day that you arrived here, you began by wounding the self-esteem of a priest. God grant this seemingly small thing has not decided your future. If it has, all your efforts will break against the convent walls, without disturbing the monk, swaying his girdle, or making his robe tremble. The alcalde, under one pretext or another, will deny you to-morrow what he grants you to-day; not a mother will let her child go to your school, and the result of all your efforts will be simply negative.”
“I cannot help feeling your fears exaggerated,” said Ibarra. “In spite of all you say, I cannot believe in this power; but even admitting it to be so great, the most intelligent of the people would be on my side, and also the Government, which is animated by the best intentions, and wishes the veritable good of the Philippines.”
“The Government! the Government!” murmured thephilosopher, raising his eyes. “However great its desire to better the country, however generous may have been the spirit of the Catholic kings, the Government sees, hears, judges nothing more than the curate or the provincial gives it to see, hear, or judge. The Government is convinced that its tranquillity comes through the monks; that if it is upheld, it is because they uphold it; that if it live, is it because they consent to let it, and that the day when they fail it, it will fall like a manikin that has lost its base. The monks hold the Government in hand by threatening a revolt of the people they control; the people, by displaying the power of the Government. So long as the Government has not an understanding with the country, it will not free itself from this tutelage. The Government looks to no vigorous future; it’s an arm, the head is the convent. Through its inertia, it allows itself to be dragged from abyss to abyss; its existence is no more than a shadow. Compare our system of government with the systems of countries you have visited——”
“Oh!” interrupted Ibarra, “that is going far. Let us be satisfied that, thanks to religion and the humanity of our rulers, our people do not complain, do not suffer like those of other countries.”
“The people do not complain because they have no voice; if they don’t revolt, it is because they are lethargic; if you say they do not suffer, it is because you have not seen their heart’s blood. But the day will come when you will see and hear. Then woe to those who base their strength on ignorance and fanaticism; woe to those who govern through falsehood, and work in the night, thinking that all sleep! When the sun’s light shows the sham of all these phantoms, there will be a frightful reaction; all this strength conserved for centuries, all this poison distilled drop by drop, all these sighs strangled, will find the light and theair. Who pay these accounts which the people from time to time present, and which History preserves for us in its bloody pages?”
“God will never permit such a day to come!” replied Ibarra, impressed in spite of himself. “The Filipinos are religious, and they love Spain. There are abuses, yes, but Spain is preparing reforms to correct them; her projects are now ripening.”
“I know; but the reforms which come from the head are annulled lower down, thanks to the greedy desire of officials to enrich themselves in a short time, and to the ignorance of the people, who accept everything. Abuses are not to be corrected by royal decrees, not where the liberty of speech, which permits the denunciation of petty tyrants, does not exist. Projects remain projects; abuses, abuses. Moreover, if by chance some one coming to occupy an office begins to show high and generous ideas, immediately he hears on all sides—while to his back he is held a fool: ‘Your Excellency does not know the country, Your Excellency does not know the character of the Indians, Your Excellency will ruin them, Your Excellency will do well to consult this one and that one,’ and so forth, and so on. And as in truth His Excellency does not know the country, which hitherto he had supposed to be in America, and since, like all men, he has his faults and weaknesses, he allows himself to be convinced. Don’t ask for miracles; don’t ask that he who comes here a stranger to make his fortune should interest himself in the welfare of the country. What does it mean to him, the gratitude or the execration of a people he does not know, among whom he has neither attachments nor hopes? To make glory sweet to us, its plaudits must resound in the ears of those we love, in the atmosphere of our home, of the country that is to preserve our ashes; we wish this glory seated on our tomb, to warm a little withits rays the cold of death, to keep us from being reduced to nothingness quite. But we wander from the question.”
“It is true I did not come to argue this point; I came to ask advice, and you tell me to bow before grotesque idols.”
“Yes, and I repeat it; you must either lower your head or lose it.”
“‘Lower my head or lose it!’” repeated Ibarra, thoughtful. “The dilemma is hard. Is it impossible to reconcile love of my country and love of Spain? Must one abase himself to be a good Christian; prostitute his conscience to achieve a good work? I love my country; I love Spain; I am a Catholic, and keep pure the faith of my fathers; but I see in all this no reason for delivering myself into the hands of my enemies.”
“But the field where you would sow is in the keeping of your enemies. You must begin by kissing the hand which——”
Ibarra did not let him finish.
“Kiss their hands! You forget that among them are those who killed my father and tore his body from the grave; but I, his son, do not forget, and if I do not avenge, it is because of my allegiance to religion!”
The old philosopher lowered his eyes.
“Señor Ibarra,” he said slowly, “if you are going to keep the remembrance of these things, things I cannot counsel you to forget, abandon this enterprise and find some other means of benefiting your compatriots. This work demands another man.”
Ibarra saw the force of these words, but he could not give up his project. The remembrance of Maria Clara was in his heart; he must make good his offering to her.
“If I go on, does your experience suggest nothing but this hard road?” he asked in a low voice.
Old Tasio took his arm and led him to the window. Afresh breeze was blowing, courier of the north wind. Below lay the garden.
“Why must we do as does that slender stalk, charged with buds and blossoms?” said the philosopher, pointing out a superb rose-tree. “The wind makes it tremble, and it bends, as if to hide its precious charge. If the stalk stood rigid, it would break, the wind would scatter the flowers, and the buds would die without opening. The gust of wind passed, the stalk rises again, proudly wearing her treasure. Who accuses her for having bowed to necessity? To lower the head when a ball whistles is not cowardice. What is reprehensible is defying the shot, to fall and rise no more.”
“And will this sacrifice bear the fruit I seek? Will they have faith in me? Can the priest forget his own offence? Will they sincerely aid me to spread that instruction which is sure to dispute with the convents the wealth of the country? Might they not feign friendship, simulate protection, and, underneath, wound my enterprise in the heel, that it fall more promptly than if attacked face to face? Admitting your views, one might expect anything.”
The old man reflected, then he said:
“If this happens, if the enterprise fails, you will have the consolation of having done what you could. Something will have been gained. Your example will embolden others, who fear only to commence.”
Ibarra weighed these reasonings, examined the situation, and saw that with all his pessimism the old man was right.
“I believe you,” he said, grasping his hand. “It was not in vain that I came to you for counsel. I will go straight to the curate, who, after all, may be a fair-minded man. They are not all like the persecutor of my father. I go with faith in God and man.”
He took leave of Tasio, mounted, and rode away, followedby the regard of the pessimistic old philosopher, who stood muttering to himself:
“We shall see, we shall see how the fates unroll the drama begun in the cemetery!”
This time the wise Tasio was wrong; the drama had begun long before.
XXII.The Meeting at the Town Hall.It was a room of twelve or fifteen by eight or ten yards. The whitewashed walls were covered with charcoal drawings, more or less ugly, more or less decent. In the corner were a dozen old shot-guns and some rusty swords, the arms of the cuadrilleros.At one end, draped with soiled red curtains, was a portrait of His Majesty the King, and on the platform underneath an old fauteuil opened its worn arms; before this was a great table, daubed with ink, carved and cut with inscriptions and monograms, like the tables of a German students’ inn. Lame chairs and tottering benches completed the furniture.In this hall meetings were held, courts sat, tortures were inflicted. At the moment the authorities of the pueblo and its vicinity were met there. The party of the old did not mingle with the party of the young; the two represented the Conservatives and Liberals.“My friends,” Don Filipo, the chief of the Liberals, was saying to a little group, “we shall vanquish the old men this time; I’m going to present their plan myself, with exaggerations, you may imagine.”“What are you saying?” demanded his surprised auditors.“Listen,” said Don Filipo. “This morning I ran across old Tasio. He said to me: ‘Your enemies are more opposed to your person than to your ideas. Is there something youdon’t want to have go through? Propose it yourself. If it’s as desirable as a mitre, they will reject it. Then let the most modest young fellow among you present what you really want. To humiliate you, your enemies will help to carry it.’ Hush! Keep the secret.”The gobernadorcillo had come in. Conversation ceased, all took places, and silence reigned.The captain, as the gobernadorcillo is called, sat down in the chair under the king’s portrait. His look was harried. He coughed, passed his hand over his cranium, coughed again, and at length began in a failing voice:“Señores, I’ve taken the risk of convening you all—hem, hem!—because we are to celebrate, the twelfth of this month, the feast of our patron, San Diego—hem, hem!”At this point of his discourse a cough, dry and regular, reduced him to silence.Then from among the elders arose Captain Basilio:“Will your honors permit me,” said he, “to speak a word under these interesting circumstances? I speak first, though many of those present have more right than I, but the things I have to say are of such importance that they should neither be left aside nor said last, and for that reason I wish to speak first, to give them the place they merit. Your honors will, then, permit me to speak first in this assembly, where I see very distinguished people, like the señor, the present gobernadorcillo; his predecessor, my distinguished friend, Don Valentine; his other predecessor, Don Julio; our renowned captain of the cuadrilleros, Don Melchior, and so many others, whom, for brevity, I will not mention, and whom you see here present. I entreat your honors to give me the floor before any one else speaks. Am I happy enough to have the assembly accede to my humble request?” And the speaker bowed respectfully, half smiling.“You may speak, we shall hear you with pleasure!” criedhis flattering friends, who held him a great orator. The old men hemmed with satisfaction and rubbed their hands.Captain Basilio wiped the sweat from his brow and continued:“Since your honors have been so kind and complaisant toward my humble self as to grant me the right of speech before all others here present, I shall profit by this permission, so generously accorded, and I shall speak. I imagine in my imagination that I find myself in the midst of the very venerable Roman senate—senatus populusque Romanus, as we said in those good old times which, unhappily for humanity, will never come back,—and I will ask the patres conscripti—as the sage Cicero would say if he were in my place—I would ask them, since time presses, and time is golden as Solomon says, that in this important matter each one give his opinion clearly, briefly, and simply. I have done.”And satisfied with himself and with the attention of the house the orator sat down, not without directing toward his friends a look which plainly said: “Ha! Did I speak well? Ha!”“Now the floor belongs to any one who—hem!” said the gobernadorcillo, without being able to finish his sentence.To judge by the general silence, no one wished to be one of the patres conscripti. Don Filipo profited thereby and rose.The Conservatives looked at one another with significant nods and gestures.“Señores, I will present my project for the fête,” he began.“We cannot accept it!” said an uncompromising Conservative.“We vote against it!” cried another adversary.Don Filipo could not repress a smile.“We have a budget of 3,500 pesos. With this sum we can assure a fête that will surpass any we have yet seen in our own province or in others.”There were cries of “Impossible!” Such a pueblo spent 4,000 pesos; another, 5,000!“Listen, señores, and you will be convinced,” continued Don Filipo, unshaken. “I propose that in the middle of the plaza we erect a grand theatre, costing 150 pesos.”“Not enough! Say 160!”“Observe, gentlemen, 200 pesos for the theatre. I propose that arrangements be made with the Comedy Company of Tondo for seven representations, seven consecutive evenings, at 200 pesos an evening. Seven representations, at 200 pesos each, makes 1,400 pesos. Observe, señor director, 1,400 pesos.”Old and young looked at one another in surprise. Only those in the secret remained unmoved.“I further propose magnificent fireworks; not those little rockets and crackers that amuse nobody but children and old maids, but great bombs, colossal rockets. I propose, then, 200 bombs at two pesos each, and 200 rockets at the same price. Observe, señores, 1,000 pesos for bombs and——”The Conservatives could not contain themselves. They got up and conferred with one another.“And further, to show our neighbors that we are not people who must count their expenditures, I propose, first, four great preachers for the two feast days; second, that each day we throw into the lake 200 roasted fowls, 100 stuffed capons, and 50 sucking pigs, as did Sylla, contemporary of Cicero, to whom Captain Basilio alluded.”“That’s it! Like Sylla!” repeated Captain Basilio, flattered.The astonishment grew.“As many rich people will come to the fêtes, each bringing thousands of pesos and his best cocks, I propose fifteen days of the gallera, the liberty of open gaming houses——”Cries rising from all sides drowned his voice; there was a veritable tumult. The gobernadorcillo, more crushed than ever, did nothing to quell it; he waited for order to establish itself.Happily Captain Valentine, most moderate of the Conservatives, rose and said:“What the lieutenant proposes seems to us extravagant. So many bombs and so much comedy could only be proposed by a young man, like the lieutenant, who could pass all his evenings at the theatre and hear countless detonations without becoming deaf. And what of these fowls thrown into the lake? Why should we imitate Sylla and the Romans? Did they ever invite us to their fêtes? I’m an old man, and I’ve never received any summons from them!”“The Romans live at Rome with the Pope,” Captain Basilio whispered.This did not disconcert Don Valentine.“At all events,” he went on, “the project is inadmissible, impossible; it’s a folly!”Don Filipo must needs retire his project.Satisfied with the defeat of their enemy, the Conservatives were not displeased to see another young man rise, the municipal head of a group of fifty or sixty families, known as a balangay.He modestly excused himself for speaking. With delicate blandishments he referred to the “ideas so elegantly expressed by Captain Basilio,” upon which the delighted captain made signs to show him how to gesture and to change position: then he unfolded his project: to have something absolutely new, and to spend the 3,500 pesos in such a way as to benefit their own province.“That’s it!” interrupted the young men; “that’s what we want!”What did they care about seeing the King of Bohemia cut off the heads of his daughters! They were neither kings nor barbarians, and if they did such things themselves, would be hung high on the field of Bagumbayan. He proposed that two native plays be given which dealt with the manners of the times. There were two he had in mind, works of their best writers. They demanded only native costumes, and could be played by amateurs of talent, of whom the province had no lack.“A good idea!” some of the Conservatives began to murmur.“I’ll pay for the theatre!” cried Captain Basilio, with enthusiasm.“Accepted! Accepted!” cried numerous voices. The young man went on:“A part of the money taken at the theatre might be distributed in prizes: to the best pupil in the school, the best shepherd, the best fisherman. We might have boat races, and games, and fireworks, of course.”Almost all were agreed, though some talked about “innovations.”When silence was established, only the decision of the gobernadorcillo was wanting.The poor man passed his hand across his forehead, he fidgeted, he perspired; finally he stammered, lowering his eyes:“I also; I approve; but, hem!”The assembly listened in silence.“But——” demanded Captain Basilio.“I approve entirely,” repeated the functionary, “that is to say, I do not approve; I say yes, but——”He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.“But,” continued the unhappy man, coming to the point at last, “the curate wants something else.”“Is the curate to pay for the festival? Has he given even a cuarto?” cried a penetrating voice.Every one turned. It was Tasio. The lieutenant remained immovable, his eyes on the gobernadorcillo.“And what does the curate want?” demanded Don Basilio.“The curate wants six processions, three sermons, three solemn masses, and if any money is left, a comedy with songs between the acts.”“But we don’t want it!” cried the young men and some of their elders.“The curate wishes it,” repeated the gobernadorcillo, “and I’ve promised that his wishes shall be carried out.”“Then why did you call us together?” asked one, impatient.“Why didn’t you say so in the beginning?” demanded another.“I wished to, señores, but, Captain Basilio, I did not have a chance. We must obey the curate!”“We must obey!” repeated some of the Conservatives.Don Filipo approached the gobernadorcillo and said bitterly:“Isacrificedmy pride in a good cause; you sacrifice your manliness in a bad one; you spoil every good thing that might be done!”Ibarra said to the schoolmaster:“Have you any commission for the capital? I leave immediately.”On the way home the old philosopher said to Don Filipo, who was cursing his fate:“The fault is ours. You didn’t protest when they gave you a slave for mayor, and I, fool that I am, forgot about him!”
It was a room of twelve or fifteen by eight or ten yards. The whitewashed walls were covered with charcoal drawings, more or less ugly, more or less decent. In the corner were a dozen old shot-guns and some rusty swords, the arms of the cuadrilleros.
At one end, draped with soiled red curtains, was a portrait of His Majesty the King, and on the platform underneath an old fauteuil opened its worn arms; before this was a great table, daubed with ink, carved and cut with inscriptions and monograms, like the tables of a German students’ inn. Lame chairs and tottering benches completed the furniture.
In this hall meetings were held, courts sat, tortures were inflicted. At the moment the authorities of the pueblo and its vicinity were met there. The party of the old did not mingle with the party of the young; the two represented the Conservatives and Liberals.
“My friends,” Don Filipo, the chief of the Liberals, was saying to a little group, “we shall vanquish the old men this time; I’m going to present their plan myself, with exaggerations, you may imagine.”
“What are you saying?” demanded his surprised auditors.
“Listen,” said Don Filipo. “This morning I ran across old Tasio. He said to me: ‘Your enemies are more opposed to your person than to your ideas. Is there something youdon’t want to have go through? Propose it yourself. If it’s as desirable as a mitre, they will reject it. Then let the most modest young fellow among you present what you really want. To humiliate you, your enemies will help to carry it.’ Hush! Keep the secret.”
The gobernadorcillo had come in. Conversation ceased, all took places, and silence reigned.
The captain, as the gobernadorcillo is called, sat down in the chair under the king’s portrait. His look was harried. He coughed, passed his hand over his cranium, coughed again, and at length began in a failing voice:
“Señores, I’ve taken the risk of convening you all—hem, hem!—because we are to celebrate, the twelfth of this month, the feast of our patron, San Diego—hem, hem!”
At this point of his discourse a cough, dry and regular, reduced him to silence.
Then from among the elders arose Captain Basilio:
“Will your honors permit me,” said he, “to speak a word under these interesting circumstances? I speak first, though many of those present have more right than I, but the things I have to say are of such importance that they should neither be left aside nor said last, and for that reason I wish to speak first, to give them the place they merit. Your honors will, then, permit me to speak first in this assembly, where I see very distinguished people, like the señor, the present gobernadorcillo; his predecessor, my distinguished friend, Don Valentine; his other predecessor, Don Julio; our renowned captain of the cuadrilleros, Don Melchior, and so many others, whom, for brevity, I will not mention, and whom you see here present. I entreat your honors to give me the floor before any one else speaks. Am I happy enough to have the assembly accede to my humble request?” And the speaker bowed respectfully, half smiling.
“You may speak, we shall hear you with pleasure!” criedhis flattering friends, who held him a great orator. The old men hemmed with satisfaction and rubbed their hands.
Captain Basilio wiped the sweat from his brow and continued:
“Since your honors have been so kind and complaisant toward my humble self as to grant me the right of speech before all others here present, I shall profit by this permission, so generously accorded, and I shall speak. I imagine in my imagination that I find myself in the midst of the very venerable Roman senate—senatus populusque Romanus, as we said in those good old times which, unhappily for humanity, will never come back,—and I will ask the patres conscripti—as the sage Cicero would say if he were in my place—I would ask them, since time presses, and time is golden as Solomon says, that in this important matter each one give his opinion clearly, briefly, and simply. I have done.”
And satisfied with himself and with the attention of the house the orator sat down, not without directing toward his friends a look which plainly said: “Ha! Did I speak well? Ha!”
“Now the floor belongs to any one who—hem!” said the gobernadorcillo, without being able to finish his sentence.
To judge by the general silence, no one wished to be one of the patres conscripti. Don Filipo profited thereby and rose.
The Conservatives looked at one another with significant nods and gestures.
“Señores, I will present my project for the fête,” he began.
“We cannot accept it!” said an uncompromising Conservative.
“We vote against it!” cried another adversary.
Don Filipo could not repress a smile.
“We have a budget of 3,500 pesos. With this sum we can assure a fête that will surpass any we have yet seen in our own province or in others.”
There were cries of “Impossible!” Such a pueblo spent 4,000 pesos; another, 5,000!
“Listen, señores, and you will be convinced,” continued Don Filipo, unshaken. “I propose that in the middle of the plaza we erect a grand theatre, costing 150 pesos.”
“Not enough! Say 160!”
“Observe, gentlemen, 200 pesos for the theatre. I propose that arrangements be made with the Comedy Company of Tondo for seven representations, seven consecutive evenings, at 200 pesos an evening. Seven representations, at 200 pesos each, makes 1,400 pesos. Observe, señor director, 1,400 pesos.”
Old and young looked at one another in surprise. Only those in the secret remained unmoved.
“I further propose magnificent fireworks; not those little rockets and crackers that amuse nobody but children and old maids, but great bombs, colossal rockets. I propose, then, 200 bombs at two pesos each, and 200 rockets at the same price. Observe, señores, 1,000 pesos for bombs and——”
The Conservatives could not contain themselves. They got up and conferred with one another.
“And further, to show our neighbors that we are not people who must count their expenditures, I propose, first, four great preachers for the two feast days; second, that each day we throw into the lake 200 roasted fowls, 100 stuffed capons, and 50 sucking pigs, as did Sylla, contemporary of Cicero, to whom Captain Basilio alluded.”
“That’s it! Like Sylla!” repeated Captain Basilio, flattered.
The astonishment grew.
“As many rich people will come to the fêtes, each bringing thousands of pesos and his best cocks, I propose fifteen days of the gallera, the liberty of open gaming houses——”
Cries rising from all sides drowned his voice; there was a veritable tumult. The gobernadorcillo, more crushed than ever, did nothing to quell it; he waited for order to establish itself.
Happily Captain Valentine, most moderate of the Conservatives, rose and said:
“What the lieutenant proposes seems to us extravagant. So many bombs and so much comedy could only be proposed by a young man, like the lieutenant, who could pass all his evenings at the theatre and hear countless detonations without becoming deaf. And what of these fowls thrown into the lake? Why should we imitate Sylla and the Romans? Did they ever invite us to their fêtes? I’m an old man, and I’ve never received any summons from them!”
“The Romans live at Rome with the Pope,” Captain Basilio whispered.
This did not disconcert Don Valentine.
“At all events,” he went on, “the project is inadmissible, impossible; it’s a folly!”
Don Filipo must needs retire his project.
Satisfied with the defeat of their enemy, the Conservatives were not displeased to see another young man rise, the municipal head of a group of fifty or sixty families, known as a balangay.
He modestly excused himself for speaking. With delicate blandishments he referred to the “ideas so elegantly expressed by Captain Basilio,” upon which the delighted captain made signs to show him how to gesture and to change position: then he unfolded his project: to have something absolutely new, and to spend the 3,500 pesos in such a way as to benefit their own province.
“That’s it!” interrupted the young men; “that’s what we want!”
What did they care about seeing the King of Bohemia cut off the heads of his daughters! They were neither kings nor barbarians, and if they did such things themselves, would be hung high on the field of Bagumbayan. He proposed that two native plays be given which dealt with the manners of the times. There were two he had in mind, works of their best writers. They demanded only native costumes, and could be played by amateurs of talent, of whom the province had no lack.
“A good idea!” some of the Conservatives began to murmur.
“I’ll pay for the theatre!” cried Captain Basilio, with enthusiasm.
“Accepted! Accepted!” cried numerous voices. The young man went on:
“A part of the money taken at the theatre might be distributed in prizes: to the best pupil in the school, the best shepherd, the best fisherman. We might have boat races, and games, and fireworks, of course.”
Almost all were agreed, though some talked about “innovations.”
When silence was established, only the decision of the gobernadorcillo was wanting.
The poor man passed his hand across his forehead, he fidgeted, he perspired; finally he stammered, lowering his eyes:
“I also; I approve; but, hem!”
The assembly listened in silence.
“But——” demanded Captain Basilio.
“I approve entirely,” repeated the functionary, “that is to say, I do not approve; I say yes, but——”
He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.
“But,” continued the unhappy man, coming to the point at last, “the curate wants something else.”
“Is the curate to pay for the festival? Has he given even a cuarto?” cried a penetrating voice.
Every one turned. It was Tasio. The lieutenant remained immovable, his eyes on the gobernadorcillo.
“And what does the curate want?” demanded Don Basilio.
“The curate wants six processions, three sermons, three solemn masses, and if any money is left, a comedy with songs between the acts.”
“But we don’t want it!” cried the young men and some of their elders.
“The curate wishes it,” repeated the gobernadorcillo, “and I’ve promised that his wishes shall be carried out.”
“Then why did you call us together?” asked one, impatient.
“Why didn’t you say so in the beginning?” demanded another.
“I wished to, señores, but, Captain Basilio, I did not have a chance. We must obey the curate!”
“We must obey!” repeated some of the Conservatives.
Don Filipo approached the gobernadorcillo and said bitterly:
“Isacrificedmy pride in a good cause; you sacrifice your manliness in a bad one; you spoil every good thing that might be done!”
Ibarra said to the schoolmaster:
“Have you any commission for the capital? I leave immediately.”
On the way home the old philosopher said to Don Filipo, who was cursing his fate:
“The fault is ours. You didn’t protest when they gave you a slave for mayor, and I, fool that I am, forgot about him!”