That morning she had not attended mass, not because she had not so desired, for on the contrary she had wished to show herself to the multitude and to hear the sermon, but her spouse had not permitted her to do so, his refusal being accompanied as usual by two or three insults, oaths, and threats of kicking. The alferez knew that his mate dressed ridiculously and had the appearance of what is known as a "querida of the soldiers," so he did not care to expose her to the gaze of strangers and persons from the capital. But she did not so understand it. She knew that she was beautiful and attractive, that she had the airs of a queen and dressed much better and with more splendor than Maria Clara herself, who wore a tapis while she went in a flowing skirt. It was therefore necessary for the alferez to threaten her, "Either shut up, or I'll kick you back to your damned town!" Dona Consolacion did not care to return to her town at the toe of a boot, but she meditated revenge.

Never had the dark face of this lady been such as to inspire confidence in any one, not even when she painted, but that morning it greatly worried the servants, especially when they saw her move about the house from one part to another, silently, as if meditating something terrible or malign. Her glance reflected the look that springs from the eyes of a serpent when caught and about to be crushed; it was cold, luminous, and penetrating, with something fascinating, loathsome, and cruel in it. The most insignificant error, the least unusual noise, drew from her a vile insult that struck into the soul, but no one answered her, for to excuse oneself would have been an additional fault.

So the day passed. Not encountering any obstacle that would block her way,—her husband had been invited out,—she became saturated with bile, the cells of her whole organism seemed to become charged with electricity which threatened to burst in a storm of hate. Everything about her folded up as do the flowers at the first breath of the hurricane, so she met with no resistance nor found any point or high place to discharge her evil humor. The soldiers and servants kept away from her. That she might not hear the sounds of rejoicing outside she had ordered the windows closed and charged the sentinel to let no one enter. She tied a handkerchief around her head as if to keep it from bursting and, in spite of the fact that the sun was still shining, ordered the lamps to be lighted.

Sisa, as we saw, had been arrested as a disturber of the peace and taken to the barracks. The alferez was not then present, so the unfortunate woman had had to spend the night there seated on a bench in an abandoned attitude. The next day the alferez saw her, and fearing for her in those days of confusion nor caring to risk a disagreeable scene, he had charged the soldiers to look after her, to treat her kindly, and to give her something to eat. Thus the madwoman spent two days.

Tonight, whether the nearness to the house of Capitan Tiago had brought to her Maria Clara's sad song or whether other recollections awoke in her old melodies, whatever the cause, Sisa also began to sing in a sweet and melancholy voice the kundiman of her youth. The soldiers heard her and fell silent; those airs awoke old memories of the days before they had been corrupted. Dona Consolacion also heard them in her tedium, and on learning who it was that sang, after a few moments of meditation, ordered that Sisa be brought to her instantly. Something like a smile wandered over her dry lips.

When Sisa was brought in she came calmly, showing neither wonder nor fear. She seemed to see no lady or mistress, and this wounded the vanity of the Muse, who endeavored to inspire respect and fear. She coughed, made a sign to the soldiers to leave her, and taking down her husband's whip, said to the crazy woman in a sinister tone, "Come on, magcantar icau!" [108]

Naturally, Sisa did not understand such Tagalog, and this ignorance calmed the Medusa's wrath, for one of the beautiful qualities of this lady was to try not to know Tagalog, or at least to appear not to know it. Speaking it the worst possible, she would thus give herself the air of a genuine orofea, [109] as she was accustomed to say. But she did well, for if she martyrized Tagalog, Spanish fared no better with her, either in regard to grammar or pronunciation, in spite of her husband, the chairs and the shoes, all of which had done what they could to teach her.

One of the words that had cost her more effort than the hieroglyphics cost Champollion was the name Filipinas. The story goes that on the day after her wedding, when she was talking with her husband, who was then a corporal, she had said Pilipinas. The corporal thought it his duty to correct her, so he said, slapping her on the head, "Say Felipinas, woman! Don't be stupid! Don't you know that's what your damned country is called, from Felipe?"

The woman, dreaming through her honeymoon, wished to obey and said Felepinas. To the corporal it seemed that she was getting nearer to it, so he increased the slaps and reprimanded her thus: "But, woman, can't you pronounce Felipe? Don't forget it; you know the king, Don Felipe—the fifth—. Say Felipe, and add to it nas, which in Latin means 'islands of Indians,' and you have the name of your damned country!"

Consolacion, at that time a washerwoman, patted her bruises and repeated with symptoms of losing her patience, "Fe-li-pe, Felipe—nas, Fe-li-pe-nas, Felipinas, so?"

The corporal saw visions. How could it be Felipenas instead of Felipinas? One of two things: either it was Felipenas or it was necessary to say Felipi! So that day he very prudently dropped the subject. Leaving his wife, he went to consult the books. Here his astonishment reached a climax: he rubbed his eyes—let's see—slowly, now! F-i-l-i-p-i-n-a-s, Filipinas! So all the well-printed books gave it—neither he nor his wife was right!

"How's this?" he murmured. "Can history lie? Doesn't this book say that Alonso Saavedra gave the country that name in honor of the prince, Don Felipe? How was that name corrupted? Can it be that this Alonso Saavedra was an Indian?" [110]

With these doubts he went to consult the sergeant Gomez, who, as a youth, had wanted to be a curate. Without deigning to look at the corporal the sergeant blew out a mouthful of smoke and answered with great pompousness, "In ancient times it was pronounced Filipi instead of Felipe. But since we moderns have become Frenchified we can't endure two i's in succession, so cultured people, especially in Madrid—you've never been in Madrid?—cultured people, as I say, have begun to change the first i to e in many words. This is called modernizing yourself."

The poor corporal had never been in Madrid—here was the cause of his failure to understand the riddle: what things are learned in Madrid! "So now it's proper to say—"

"In the ancient style, man! This country's not yet cultured! In the ancient style, Filipinas!" exclaimed Gomez disdainfully.

The corporal, even if he was a bad philologist, was yet a good husband. What he had just learned his spouse must also know, so he proceeded with her education: "Consola, what do you call your damned country?"

"What should I call it? Just what you taught me: Felifinas!"

"I'll throw a chair at you, you ——! Yesterday you pronounced it even better in the modern style, but now it's proper to pronounce it like an ancient: Feli, I mean, Filipinas!"

"Remember that I'm no ancient! What are you thinking about?"

"Never mind! Say Filipinas!"

"I don't want to. I'm no ancient baggage, scarcely thirty years old!" she replied, rolling up her sleeves and preparing herself for the fray.

"Say it, you ——, or I'll throw this chair at you!"

Consolacion saw the movement, reflected, then began to stammer with heavy breaths, "Feli-, Fele-, File—"

Pum! Crack! The chair finished the word. So the lesson ended in fisticuffs, scratchings, slaps. The corporal caught her by the hair; she grabbed his goatee, but was unable to bite because of her loose teeth. He let out a yell, released her and begged her pardon. Blood began to flow, one eye got redder than the other, a camisa was torn into shreds, many things came to light, but not Filipinas.

Similar incidents occurred every time the question of language came up. The corporal, watching her linguistic progress, sorrowfully calculated that in ten years his mate would have completely forgotten how to talk, and this was about what really came to pass. When they were married she still knew Tagalog and could make herself understood in Spanish, but now, at the time of our story, she no longer spoke any language. She had become so addicted to expressing herself by means of signs—and of these she chose the loudest and most impressive—that she could have given odds to the inventor of Volapuk.

Sisa, therefore, had the good fortune not to understand her, so the Medusa smoothed out her eyebrows a little, while a smile of satisfaction lighted up her face; undoubtedly she did not know Tagalog, she was an orofea!

"Boy, tell her in Tagalog to sing! She doesn't understand me, she doesn't understand Spanish!"

The madwoman understood the boy and began to sing the Song of the Night. Dona Consolacion listened at first with a sneer, which disappeared little by little from her lips. She became attentive, then serious, and even somewhat thoughtful. The voice, the sentiment in the lines, and the song itself affected her—that dry and withered heart was perhaps thirsting for rain. She understood it well: "The sadness, the cold, and the moisture that descend from the sky when wrapped in the mantle of night," so ran the kundiman, seemed to be descending also on her heart. "The withered and faded flower which during the day flaunted her finery, seeking applause and full of vanity, at eventide, repentant and disenchanted, makes an effort to raise her drooping petals to the sky, seeking a little shade to hide herself and die without the mocking of the light that saw her in her splendor, without seeing the vanity of her pride, begging also that a little dew should weep upon her. The nightbird leaves his solitary retreat, the hollow of an ancient trunk, and disturbs the sad loneliness of the open places—"

"No, don't sing!" she exclaimed in perfect Tagalog, as she rose with agitation. "Don't sing! Those verses hurt me."

The crazy woman became silent. The boy ejaculated, "Aba! She talks Tagalog!" and stood staring with admiration at his mistress, who, realizing that she had given herself away, was ashamed of it, and as her nature was not that of a woman, the shame took the aspect of rage and hate; so she showed the door to the imprudent boy and closed it behind him with a kick.

Twisting the whip in her nervous hands, she took a few turns around the room, then stopping suddenly in front of the crazy woman, said to her in Spanish, "Dance!" But Sisa did not move.

"Dance, dance!" she repeated in a sinister tone.

The madwoman looked at her with wandering, expressionless eyes, while the alfereza lifted one of her arms, then the other, and shook them, but to no purpose, for Sisa did not understand. Then she began to jump about and shake herself, encouraging Sisa to imitate her. In the distance was to be heard the music of the procession playing a grave and majestic march, but Dona Consolacion danced furiously, keeping other time to other music resounding within her. Sisa gazed at her without moving, while her eyes expressed curiosity and something like a weak smile hovered around her pallid lips: the lady's dancing amused her. The latter stopped as if ashamed, raised the whip,—that terrible whip known to thieves and soldiers, made in Ulango [111] and perfected by the alferez with twisted wires,—and said, "Now it's your turn to dance—dance!"

She began to strike the madwoman's bare feet gently with the whip. Sisa's face drew up with pain and she was forced to protect herself with her hands.

"Aha, now you're starting!" she exclaimed with savage joy, passing from lento to allegro vivace.

The afflicted Sisa gave a cry of pain and quickly raised her foot.

"You've got to dance, you Indian—!" The whip swung and whistled.

Sisa let herself fall to the floor and placed both hands on her knees while she gazed at her tormentor with wildly-staring eyes. Two sharp cuts of the whip on her shoulder made her stand up, and it was not merely a cry but a howl that the unfortunate woman uttered. Her thin camisa was torn, her skin broken, and the blood was flowing.

The sight of blood arouses the tiger; the blood of her victim aroused Dona Consolacion. "Dance, damn you, dance! Evil to the mother who bore you!" she cried. "Dance, or I'll flog you to death!" She then caught Sisa with one hand and, whipping her with the other, began to dance about.

The crazy woman at last understood and followed the example by swinging her arms about awkwardly. A smile of satisfaction curled the lips of her teacher, the smile of a female Mephistopheles who succeeds in getting a great pupil. There were in it hate, disdain, jest, and cruelty; with a burst of demoniacal laughter she could not have expressed more.

Thus, absorbed in the joy of the sight, she was not aware of the arrival of her husband until he opened the door with a loud kick. The alferez appeared pale and gloomy, and when he saw what was going on he threw a terrible glance at his wife, who did not move from her place but stood smiling at him cynically.

The alferez put his hand as gently as he could on the shoulder of the strange dancer and made her stop. The crazy woman sighed and sank slowly to the floor covered with her own blood.

The silence continued. The alferez breathed heavily, while his wife watched him with questioning eyes. She picked up the whip and asked in a smooth, soft voice, "What's the matter with you? You haven't even wished me good evening."

The alferez did not answer, but instead called the boy and said to him, "Take this woman away and tell Marta to get her some other clothes and attend to her. You give her something to eat and a good bed. Take care that she isn't ill-treated! Tomorrow she'll be taken to Senor Ibarra's house."

Then he closed the door carefully, bolted it, and approached his wife. "You're tempting me to kill you!" he exclaimed, doubling up his fists.

"What's the matter with you?" she asked, rising and drawing away from him.

"What's the matter with me!" he yelled in a voice of thunder, letting out an oath and holding up before her a sheet of paper covered with scrawls. "Didn't you write this letter to the alcalde saying that I'm bribed to permit gambling, huh? I don't know why I don't beat you to death."

"Let's see you! Let's see you try it if you dare!" she replied with a jeering laugh. "The one who beats me to death has got to be more of a man than you are!"

He heard the insult, but saw the whip. Catching up a plate from the table, he threw it at her head, but she, accustomed to such fights, dodged quickly and the plate was shattered against the wall. A cup and saucer met with a similar fate.

"Coward!" she yelled; "you're afraid to come near me!" And to exasperate him the more, she spat upon him.

The alferez went blind from rage and with a roar attempted to throw himself upon her, but she, with astonishing quickness, hit him across the face with the whip and ran hurriedly into an inner room, shutting and bolting the door violently behind her. Bellowing with rage and pain, he followed, but was only able to run against the door, which made him vomit oaths.

"Accursed be your offspring, you sow! Open, open, or I'll break your head!" he howled, beating the door with his hands and feet.

No answer was heard, but instead the scraping of chairs and trunks as if she was building a barricade with the furniture. The house shook under the kicks and curses of the alferez.

"Don't come in, don't come in!" called the sour voice inside. "If you show yourself, I'll shoot you."

By degrees he appeared to become calm and contented himself with walking up and down the room like a wild beast in its cage.

"Go out into the street and cool off your head!" the woman continued to jeer at him, as she now seemed to have completed her preparations for defense.

"I swear that if I catch you, even God won't save you, you old sow!"

"Yes, now you can say what you like. You didn't want me to go to mass! You didn't let me attend to my religious duties!" she answered with such sarcasm as only she knew how to use.

The alferez put on his helmet, arranged his clothing a little, and went out with heavy steps, but returned after a few minutes without making the least noise, having taken off his shoes. The servants, accustomed to these brawls, were usually bored, but this novelty of the shoes attracted their attention, so they winked to one another. The alferez sat down quietly in a chair at the side of the Sublime Port and had the patience to wait for more than half an hour.

"Have you really gone out or are you still there, old goat?" asked the voice from time to time, changing the epithets and raising the tone. At last she began to take away the furniture piece by piece. He heard the noise and smiled.

"Boy, has your master gone out?" cried Dona Consolacion.

At a sign from the alferez the boy answered, "Yes, senora, he's gone out."

A gleeful laugh was heard from her as she pulled back the bolt. Slowly her husband arose, the door opened a little way—

A yell, the sound of a falling body, oaths, howls, curses, blows, hoarse voices—who can tell what took place in the darkness of that room?

As the boy went out into the kitchen he made a significant sign to the cook, who said to him, "You'll pay for that."

"I? In any case the whole town will! She asked me if he had gone out, not if he had come back!"



CHAPTER XL

Right and Might

Ten o'clock at night: the last rockets rose lazily in the dark sky where a few paper balloons recently inflated with smoke and hot air still glimmered like new stars. Some of those adorned with fireworks took fire, threatening all the houses, so there might be seen on the ridges of the roofs men armed with pails of water and long poles with pieces of cloth on the ends. Their black silhouettes stood out in the vague clearness of the air like phantoms that had descended from space to witness the rejoicings of men. Many pieces of fireworks of fantastic shapes—wheels, castles, bulls, carabaos—had been set off, surpassing in beauty and grandeur anything ever before seen by the inhabitants of San Diego.

Now the people were moving in crowds toward the plaza to attend the theater for the last time, Here and there might be seen Bengal lights fantastically illuminating the merry groups while the boys were availing themselves of torches to hunt in the grass for unexploded bombs and other remnants that could still be used. But soon the music gave the signal and all abandoned the open places.

The great stage was brilliantly illuminated. Thousands of lights surrounded the posts, hung from the roof, or sowed the floor with pyramidal clusters. An alguazil was looking after these, and when he came forward to attend to them the crowd shouted at him and whistled, "There he is! there he is!"

In front of the curtain the orchestra players were tuning their instruments and playing preludes of airs. Behind them was the space spoken of by the correspondent in his letter, where the leading citizens of the town, the Spaniards, and the rich visitors occupied rows of chairs. The general public, the nameless rabble, filled up the rest of the place, some of them bringing benches on their shoulders not so much for seats as to make, up for their lack of stature. This provoked noisy protests on the part of the benchless, so the offenders got down at once; but before long they were up again as if nothing had happened.

Goings and comings, cries, exclamations, bursts of laughter, a serpent-cracker turned loose, a firecracker set off—all contributed to swell the uproar. Here a bench had a leg broken off and the people fell to the ground amid the laughter of the crowd. They were visitors who had come from afar to observe and now found themselves the observed. Over there they quarreled and disputed over a seat, a little farther on was heard the noise of breaking glass; it was Andeng carrying refreshments and drinks, holding the wide tray carefully with both hands, but by chance she had met her sweetheart, who tried to take advantage of the situation.

The teniente-mayor, Don Filipo, presided over the show, as the gobernadorcillo was fond of monte. He was talking with old Tasio. "What can I do? The alcalde was unwilling to accept my resignation. 'Don't you feel strong enough to attend to your duties?' he asked me."

"How did you answer him?"

"'Senor Alcalde,' I answered, 'the strength of a teniente-mayor, however insignificant it may be, is like all other authority it emanates from higher spheres. The King himself receives his strength from the people and the people theirs from God. That is exactly what I lack, Senor Alcalde.' But he did not care to listen to me, telling me that we would talk about it after the fiesta."

"Then may God help you!" said the old man, starting away.

"Don't you want to see the show?"

"Thanks, no! For dreams and nonsense I am sufficient unto myself," the Sage answered with a sarcastic smile. "But now I think of it, has your attention never been drawn to the character of our people? Peaceful, yet fond of warlike shows and bloody fights; democratic, yet adoring emperors, kings, and princes; irreligious, yet impoverishing itself by costly religious pageants. Our women have gentle natures yet go wild with joy when a princess flourishes a lance. Do you know to what it is due? Well—"

The arrival of Maria Clara and her friends put an end to this conversation. Don Filipo met them and ushered them to their seats. Behind them came the curate with another Franciscan and some Spaniards. Following the priests were a number of the townsmen who make it their business to escort the friars. "May God reward them also in the next life," muttered old Tasio as he went away.

The play began with Chananay and Marianito in Crispino e la comare. All now had their eyes and ears turned to the stage, all but one: Padre Salvi, who seemed to have gone there for no other purpose than that of watching Maria Clara, whose sadness gave to her beauty an air so ideal and interesting that it was easy to understand how she might be looked upon with rapture. But the eyes of the Franciscan, deeply hidden in their sunken sockets, spoke nothing of rapture. In that gloomy gaze was to be read something desperately sad—with such eyes Cain might have gazed from afar on the Paradise whose delights his mother pictured to him!

The first scene was over when Ibarra entered. His appearance caused a murmur, and attention was fixed on him and the curate. But the young man seemed not to notice anything as he greeted Maria Clara and her friends in a natural way and took a seat beside them.

The only one who spoke to him was Sinang. "Did you see the fireworks?" she asked.

"No, little friend, I had to go with the Captain-General."

"Well, that's a shame! The curate was with us and told us stories of the damned—can you imagine it!—to fill us with fear so that we might not enjoy ourselves—can you imagine it!"

The curate arose and approached Don Filipo, with whom he began an animated conversation. The former spoke in a nervous manner, the latter in a low, measured voice.

"I'm sorry that I can't please your Reverence," said Don Filipo, "but Senor Ibarra is one of the heaviest contributors and has a right to be here as long as he doesn't disturb the peace."

"But isn't it disturbing the peace to scandalize good Christians? It's letting a wolf enter the fold. You will answer for this to God and the authorities!"

"I always answer for the actions that spring from my own will, Padre," replied Don Filipo with a slight bow. "But my little authority does not empower me to mix in religious affairs. Those who wish to avoid contact with him need not talk to him. Senor Ibarra forces himself on no one."

"But it's giving opportunity for danger, and he who loves danger perishes in it."

"I don't see any danger, Padre. The alcalde and the Captain-General, my superior officers, have been talking with him all the afternoon and it's not for me to teach them a lesson."

"If you don't put him out of here, we'll leave."

"I'm very sorry, but I can't put any one out of here." The curate repented of his threat, but it was too late to retract, so he made a sign to his companion, who arose with regret, and the two went out together. The persons attached to them followed their example, casting looks of hatred at Ibarra.

The murmurs and whispers increased. A number of people approached the young man and said to him, "We're with you, don't take any notice of them."

"Whom do you mean by them?" Ibarra asked in surprise.

"Those who've just left to avoid contact with you."

"Left to avoid contact with me?"

"Yes, they say that you're excommunicated."

"Excommunicated?" The astonished youth did not know what to say. He looked about him and saw that Maria Clara was hiding her face behind her fan. "But is it possible?" he exclaimed finally. "Are we still in the Dark Ages? So—"

He approached the young women and said with a change of tone, "Excuse me, I've forgotten an engagement. I'll be back to see you home."

"Stay!" Sinang said to him. "Yeyeng is going to dance La Calandria. She dances divinely."

"I can't, little friend, but I'll be back." The uproar increased.

Yeyeng appeared fancifully dressed, with the "Da uste su permiso?" and Carvajal was answering her, "Pase uste adelante," when two soldiers of the Civil Guard went up to Don Filipo and ordered him to stop the performance.

"Why?" asked the teniente-mayor in surprise.

"Because the alferez and his wife have been fighting and can't sleep."

"Tell the alferez that we have permission from the alcalde and that against such permission no one in the town has any authority, not even the gobernadorcillo himself, and he is my only superior."

"Well, the show must stop!" repeated the soldiers. Don Filipo turned his back and they went away. In order not to disturb the merriment he told no one about the incident.

After the selection of vaudeville, which was loudly applauded, the Prince Villardo presented himself, challenging to mortal combat the Moros who held his father prisoner. The hero threatened to cut off all their heads at a single stroke and send them to the moon, but fortunately for the Moros, who were disposing themselves for the combat, a tumult arose. The orchestra suddenly ceased playing, threw their instruments away, and jumped up on the stage. The valiant Villardo, not expecting them and taking them for allies of the Moros, dropped his sword and shield, and started to run. The Moros, seeing that such a doughty Christian was fleeing, did not consider it improper to imitate him. Cries, groans, prayers, oaths were heard, while the people ran and pushed one another about. The lights were extinguished, blazing lamps were thrown into the air. "Tulisanes! Tulisanes!" cried some. "Fire, fire! Robbers!" shouted others. Women and children wept, benches and spectators were rolled together on the ground amid the general pandemonium.

The cause of all this uproar was two civil-guards, clubs in hand, chasing the musicians in order to break up the performance. The teniente-mayor, with the aid of the cuadrilleros, who were armed with old sabers, managed at length to arrest them, in spite of their resistance.

"Take them to the town hall!" cried Don Filipo. "Take care that they don't get away!"

Ibarra had returned to look for Maria Clara. The frightened girls clung to him pale and trembling while Aunt Isabel recited the Latin litany.

When the people were somewhat calmed down from their fright and had learned the cause of the disturbance, they were beside themselves with indignation. Stones rained on the squad of cuadrilleros who were conducting the two offenders from the scene, and there were even those who proposed to set fire to the barracks of the Civil Guard so as to roast Dona Consolacion along with the alferez.

"That's what they're good for!" cried a woman, doubling up her fists and stretching out her arms. "To disturb the town! They don't chase any but honest folks! Out yonder are the tulisanes and the gamblers. Let's set fire to the barracks!"

One man was beating himself on the arm and begging for confession. Plaintive sounds issued from under the overturned benches—it was a poor musician. The stage was crowded with actors and spectators, all talking at the same time. There was Chananay dressed as Leonor in Il Trovatore, talking in the language of the markets to Ratia in the costume of a schoolmaster; Yeyeng, wrapped in a silk shawl, was clinging to the Prince Villardo; while Balbino and the Moros were exerting themselves to console the more or less injured musicians. [112] Several Spaniards went from group to group haranguing every one they met.

A large crowd was forming, whose intention Don Filipo seemed to be aware of, for he ran to stop them. "Don't disturb the peace!" he cried. "Tomorrow we'll ask for an accounting and we'll get justice. I'll answer for it that we get justice!"

"No!" was the reply of several. "They did the same thing in Kalamba, [113] the same promise was made, but the alcalde did nothing. We'll take the law into our own hands! To the barracks!"

In vain the teniente-mayor pleaded with them. The crowd maintained its hostile attitude, so he looked about him for help and noticed Ibarra.

"Senor Ibarra, as a favor! Restrain them while I get some cuadrilleros."

"What can I do?" asked the perplexed youth, but the teniente-mayor was already at a distance. He gazed about him seeking he knew not whom, when accidentally he discerned Elias, who stood impassively watching the disturbance.

Ibarra ran to him, caught him by the arm, and said to him in Spanish: "For God's sake, do something, if you can! I can't do anything." The pilot must have understood him, for he disappeared in the crowd. Lively disputes and sharp exclamations were heard. Gradually the crowd began to break up, its members each taking a less hostile attitude. It was high time, indeed, for the soldiers were already rushing out armed and with fixed bayonets.

Meanwhile, what had the curate been doing? Padre Salvi had not gone to bed but had stood motionless, resting his forehead against the curtains and gazing toward the plaza. From time to time a suppressed sigh escaped him, and if the light of the lamp had not been so dim, perhaps it would have been possible to see his eyes fill with tears. Thus nearly an hour passed.

The tumult in the plaza awoke him from his reverie. With startled eyes he saw the confused movements of the people, while their voices came up to him faintly. A breathless servant informed him of what was happening. A thought shot across his mind: in the midst of confusion and tumult is the time when libertines take advantage of the consternation and weakness of woman. Every one seeks to save himself, no one thinks of any one else; a cry is not heard or heeded, women faint, are struck and fall, terror and fright heed not shame, under the cover of night—and when they are in love! He imagined that he saw Crisostomo snatch the fainting Maria Clara up in his arms and disappear into the darkness. So he went down the stairway by leaps and bounds, and without hat or cane made for the plaza like a madman. There he met some Spaniards who were reprimanding the soldiers, but on looking toward the seats that the girls had occupied he saw that they were vacant.

"Padre! Padre!" cried the Spaniards, but he paid no attention to them as he ran in the direction of Capitan Tiago's. There he breathed more freely, for he saw in the open hallway the adorable silhouette, full of grace and soft in outline, of Maria Clara, and that of the aunt carrying cups and glasses.

"Ah!" he murmured, "it seems that she has been taken sick only."

Aunt Isabel at that moment closed the windows and the graceful shadow was no longer to be seen. The curate moved away without heeding the crowd. He had before his eyes the beautiful form of a maiden sleeping and breathing sweetly. Her eyelids were shaded by long lashes which formed graceful curves like those of the Virgins of Raphael, the little mouth was smiling, all the features breathed forth virginity, purity, and innocence. That countenance formed a sweet vision in the midst of the white coverings of her bed like the head of a cherub among the clouds. His imagination went still further—but who can write what a burning brain can imagine?

Perhaps only the newspaper correspondent, who concluded his account of the fiesta and its accompanying incidents in the following manner:

"A thousand thanks, infinite thanks, to the opportune and active intervention of the Very Reverend Padre Fray Bernardo Salvi, who, defying every danger in the midst of the unbridled mob, without hat or cane, calmed the wrath of the crowd, using only his persuasive word with the majesty and authority that are never lacking to a minister of a Religion of Peace. With unparalleled self-abnegation this virtuous priest tore himself from sweet repose, such as every good conscience like his enjoys, and rushed to protect his flock from the least harm. The people of San Diego will hardly forget this sublime deed of their heroic Pastor, remembering to hold themselves grateful to him for all eternity!"



CHAPTER XLI

Two Visits

Ibarra was in such a state of mind that he found it impossible to sleep, so to distract his attention from the sad thoughts which are so exaggerated during the night-hours he set to work in his lonely cabinet. Day found him still making mixtures and combinations, to the action of which he subjected pieces of bamboo and other substances, placing them afterwards in numbered and sealed jars.

A servant entered to announce the arrival of a man who had the appearance of being from the country. "Show him in," said Ibarra without looking around.

Elias entered and remained standing in silence.

"Ah, it's you!" exclaimed Ibarra in Tagalog when he recognized him. "Excuse me for making you wait, I didn't notice that it was you. I'm making an important experiment."

"I don't want to disturb you," answered the youthful pilot. "I've come first to ask you if there is anything I can do for you in the province, of Batangas, for which I am leaving immediately, and also to bring you some bad news."

Ibarra questioned him with a look.

"Capitan Tiago's daughter is ill," continued Elias quietly, "but not seriously."

"That's what I feared," murmured Ibarra in a weak voice. "Do you know what is the matter with her?"

"A fever. Now, if you have nothing to command—"

"Thank you, my friend, no. I wish you a pleasant journey. But first let me ask you a question—if it is indiscreet, do not answer."

Elias bowed.

"How were you able to quiet the disturbance last night?" asked Ibarra, looking steadily at him.

"Very easily," answered Elias in the most natural manner. "The leaders of the commotion were two brothers whose father died from a beating given him by the Civil Guard. One day I had the good fortune to save them from the same hands into which their father had fallen, and both are accordingly grateful to me. I appealed to them last night and they undertook to dissuade the rest."

"And those two brothers whose father died from the beating—"

"Will end as their father did," replied Elias in a low voice. "When misfortune has once singled out a family all its members must perish,—when the lightning strikes a tree the whole is reduced to ashes."

Ibarra fell silent on hearing this, so Elias took his leave. When the youth found himself alone he lost the serene self-possession he had maintained in the pilot's presence. His sorrow pictured itself on his countenance. "I, I have made her suffer," he murmured.

He dressed himself quickly and descended the stairs. A small man, dressed in mourning, with a large scar on his left cheek, saluted him humbly, and detained him on his way.

"What do you want?" asked Ibarra.

"Sir, my name is Lucas, and I'm the brother of the man who was killed yesterday."

"Ah, you have my sympathy. Well?"

"Sir, I want to know how much you're going to pay my brother's family."

"Pay?" repeated the young man, unable to conceal his disgust. "We'll talk of that later. Come back this afternoon, I'm in a hurry now."

"Only tell me how much you're willing to pay," insisted Lucas.

"I've told you that we'll talk about that some other time. I haven't time now," repeated Ibarra impatiently.

"You haven't time now, sir?" asked Lucas bitterly, placing himself in front of the young man. "You haven't time to consider the dead?"

"Come this afternoon, my good man," replied Ibarra, restraining himself. "I'm on my way now to visit a sick person."

"Ah, for the sick you forget the dead? Do you think that because we are poor—"

Ibarra looked at him and interrupted, "Don't try my patience!" then went on his way.

Lucas stood looking after him with a smile full of hate. "It's easy to see that you're the grandson of the man who tied my father out in the sun," he muttered between his teeth. "You still have the same blood."

Then with a change of tone he added, "But, if you pay well—friends!"



CHAPTER XLII

The Espadanas

The fiesta is over. The people of the town have again found, as in every other year, that their treasury is poorer, that they have worked, sweated, and stayed awake much without really amusing themselves, without gaining any new friends, and, in a word, that they have dearly bought their dissipation and their headaches. But this matters nothing, for the same will be done next year, the same the coming century, since it has always been the custom.

In Capitan Tiago's house sadness reigns. All the windows are closed, the inmates move about noiselessly, and only in the kitchen do they dare to speak in natural tones. Maria Clara, the soul of the house, lies sick in bed and her condition is reflected in all the faces, as the sorrows of the mind may be read in the countenance of an individual.

"Which seems best to you, Isabel, shall I make a poor-offering to the cross of Tunasan or to the cross of Matahong?" asks the afflicted father in a low voice. "The Tunasan cross grows while the Matahong cross sweats which do you think is more miraculous?"

Aunt Isabel reflects, shakes her head, and murmurs, "To grow, to grow is a greater miracle than to sweat. All of us sweat, but not all of us grow."

"That's right, Isabel; but remember that to sweat for the wood of which bench-legs are made to sweat—is not a small miracle. Come, the best thing will be to make poor-offerings to both crosses, so neither will resent it, and Maria will get better sooner. Are the rooms ready? You know that with the doctors is coming a new gentleman, a distant relative of Padre Damaso's. Nothing should be lacking."

At the other end of the dining-room are the two cousins, Sinang and Victoria, who have come to keep the sick girl company. Andeng is helping them clean a silver tea-set.

"Do you know Dr. Espadana?" the foster-sister of Maria Clara asks Victoria curiously.

"No," replies the latter, "the only thing that I know about him is that he charges high, according to Capitan Tiago."

"Then he must be good!" exclaims Andeng. "The one who performed an operation on Dona Maria charged high; so he was learned."

"Silly!" retorts Sinang. "Every one who charges high is not learned. Look at Dr. Guevara; after performing a bungling operation that cost the life of both mother and child, he charged the widower fifty pesos. The thing to know is how to charge!"

"What do you know about it?" asks her cousin, nudging her.

"Don't I know? The husband, who is a poor sawyer, after losing his wife had to lose his home also, for the alcalde, being a friend of the doctor's, made him pay. Don't I know about it, when my father lent him the money to make the journey to Santa Cruz?" [114]

The sound of a carriage stopping in front of the house put an end to these conversations. Capitan Tiago, followed by Aunt Isabel, ran down the steps to welcome the new arrivals: the Doctor Don Tiburcio de Espadana, his senora the Doctora Dona Victorina de los Reyes de De Espadana, and a young Spaniard of pleasant countenance and agreeable aspect.

Dona Victorina was attired in a loose silk gown embroidered with flowers and a hat with a huge parrot half-crushed between blue and red ribbons. The dust of the road mingled with the rice-powder on her cheeks seemed to accentuate her wrinkles. As at the time we saw her in Manila, she now supported her lame husband on her arm.

"I have the pleasure of introducing to you our cousin, Don Alfonso Linares de Espadana," said Dona Victorina, indicating their young companion. "The gentleman is a godson of a relative of Padre Damaso's and has been private secretary to all the ministers."

The young man bowed politely and Capitan Tiago came very near to kissing his hand.

While their numerous trunks and traveling-bags are being carried in and Capitan Tiago is conducting them to their rooms, let us talk a little of this couple whose acquaintance we made slightly in the first chapters.

Dona Victorina was a lady of forty and five winters, which were equivalent to thirty and two summers according to her arithmetical calculations. She had been beautiful in her youth, having had, as she used to say, 'good flesh,' but in the ecstasies of contemplating herself she had looked with disdain on her many Filipino admirers, since her aspirations were toward another race. She had refused to bestow on any one her little white hand, not indeed from distrust, for not a few times had she given jewelry and gems of great value to various foreign and Spanish adventurers. Six months before the time of our story she had seen realized her most beautiful dream,—the dream of her whole life,—for which she might scorn the fond illusions of her youth and even the promises of love that Capitan Tiago had in other days whispered in her ear or sung in some serenade. Late, it is true, had the dream been realized, but Dona Victorina, who, although she spoke the language badly, was more Spanish than Augustina of Saragossa, [115] understood the proverb, "Better late than never," and found consolation in repeating it to herself. "Absolute happiness does not exist on earth," was another favorite proverb of hers, but she never used both together before other persons.

Having passed her first, second, third, and fourth youth in casting her nets in the sea of the world for the object of her vigils, she had been compelled at last to content herself with what fate was willing to apportion her. Had the poor woman been only thirty and one instead of thirty and two summers—the difference according to her mode of reckoning was great—she would have restored to Destiny the award it offered her to wait for another more suited to her taste, but since man proposes and necessity disposes, she saw herself obliged in her great need for a husband to content herself with a poor fellow who had been cast out from Estremadura [116] and who, after wandering about the world for six or seven years like a modern Ulysses, had at last found on the island of Luzon hospitality and a withered Calypso for his better half. This unhappy mortal, by name Tiburcio Espadana, was only thirty-five years of age and looked like an old man, yet he was, nevertheless, younger than Dona Victorina, who was only thirty-two. The reason for this is easy to understand but dangerous to state.

Don Tiburcio had come to the Philippines as a petty official in the Customs, but such had been his bad luck that, besides suffering severely from seasickness and breaking a leg during the voyage, he had been dismissed within a fortnight, just at the time when he found himself without a cuarto. After his rough experience on the sea he did not care to return to Spain without having made his fortune, so he decided to devote himself to something. Spanish pride forbade him to engage in manual labor, although the poor fellow would gladly have done any kind of work in order to earn an honest living. But the prestige of the Spaniards would not have allowed it, even though this prestige did not protect him from want.

At first he had lived at the expense of some of his countrymen, but in his honesty the bread tasted bitter, so instead of getting fat he grew thin. Since he had neither learning nor money nor recommendations he was advised by his countrymen, who wished to get rid of him, to go to the provinces and pass himself off as a doctor of medicine. He refused at first, for he had learned nothing during the short period that he had spent as an attendant in a hospital, his duties there having been to dust off the benches and light the fires. But as his wants were pressing and as his scruples were soon laid to rest by his friends he finally listened to them and went to the provinces. He began by visiting some sick persons, and at first made only moderate charges, as his conscience dictated, but later, like the young philosopher of whom Samaniego [117] tells, he ended by putting a higher price on his visits. Thus he soon passed for a great physician and would probably have made his fortune if the medical authorities in Manila had not heard of his exorbitant fees and the competition that he was causing others. Both private parties and professionals interceded for him. "Man," they said to the zealous medical official, "let him make his stake and as soon as he has six or seven thousand pesos he can go back home and live there in peace. After all, what does it matter to you if he does deceive the unwary Indians? They should be more careful! He's a poor devil—don't take the bread from his mouth—be a good Spaniard!" This official was a good Spaniard and agreed to wink at the matter, but the news soon reached the ears of the people and they began to distrust him, so in a little while he lost his practise and again saw himself obliged almost to beg his daily bread. It was then that he learned through a friend, who was an intimate acquaintance of Dona Victorina's, of the dire straits in which that lady was placed and also of her patriotism and her kind heart. Don Tiburcio then saw a patch of blue sky and asked to be introduced to her.

Dona Victorina and Don Tiburcio met: tarde venientibus ossa, [118] he would have exclaimed had he known Latin! She was no longer passable, she was passee. Her abundant hair had been reduced to a knot about the size of an onion, according to her maid, while her face was furrowed with wrinkles and her teeth were falling loose. Her eyes, too, had suffered considerably, so that she squinted frequently in looking any distance. Her disposition was the only part of her that remained intact.

At the end of a half-hour's conversation they understood and accepted each other. She would have preferred a Spaniard who was less lame, less stuttering, less bald, less toothless, who slobbered less when he talked, and who had more "spirit" and "quality," as she used to say, but that class of Spaniards no longer came to seek her hand. She had more than once heard it said that opportunity is pictured as being bald, and firmly believed that Don Tiburcio was opportunity itself, for as a result of his misfortunes he suffered from premature baldness. And what woman is not prudent at thirty-two years of age?

Don Tiburcio, for his part, felt a vague melancholy when he thought of his honeymoon, but smiled with resignation and called to his support the specter of hunger. Never had he been ambitious or pretentious; his tastes were simple and his desires limited; but his heart, untouched till then, had dreamed of a very different divinity. Back there in his youth when, worn out with work, he lay doom on his rough bed after a frugal meal, he used to fall asleep dreaming of an image, smiling and tender. Afterwards, when troubles and privations increased and with the passing of years the poetical image failed to materialize, he thought modestly of a good woman, diligent and industrious, who would bring him a small dowry, to console him for the fatigues of his toil and to quarrel with him now and then—yes, he had thought of quarrels as a kind of happiness! But when obliged to wander from land to land in search not so much of fortune as of some simple means of livelihood for the remainder of his days; when, deluded by the stories of his countrymen from overseas, he had set out for the Philippines, realism gave, place to an arrogant mestiza or a beautiful Indian with big black eyes, gowned in silks and transparent draperies, loaded down with gold and diamonds, offering him her love, her carriages, her all. When he reached Manila he thought for a time that his dream was to be realized, for the young women whom he saw driving on the Luneta and the Malecon in silver-mounted carriages had gazed at him with some curiosity. Then after his position was gone, the mestiza and the Indian disappeared and with great effort he forced before himself the image of a widow, of course an agreeable widow! So when he saw his dream take shape in part he became sad, but with a certain touch of native philosophy said to himself, "Those were all dreams and in this world one does not live on dreams!" Thus he dispelled his doubts: she used rice-powder, but after their marriage he would break her of the habit; her face had many wrinkles, but his coat was torn and patched; she was a pretentious old woman, domineering and mannish, but hunger was more terrible, more domineering and pretentious still, and anyway, he had been blessed with a mild disposition for that very end, and love softens the character. She spoke Spanish badly, but he himself did not talk it well, as he had been told when notified of his dismissal Moreover, what did it matter to him if she was an ugly and ridiculous old woman? He was lame, toothless, and bald! Don Tiburcio preferred to take charge of her rather than to become a public charge from hunger. When some friends joked with him about it, he answered, "Give me bread and call me a fool."

Don Tiburcio was one of those men who are popularly spoken of as unwilling to harm a fly. Modest, incapable of harboring an unkind thought, in bygone days he would have been made a missionary. His stay in the country had not given him the conviction of grand superiority, of great valor, and of elevated importance that the greater part of his countrymen acquire in a few weeks. His heart had never been capable of entertaining hate nor had he been able to find a single filibuster; he saw only unhappy wretches whom he must despoil if he did not wish to be more unhappy than they were. When he was threatened with prosecution for passing himself off as a physician he was not resentful nor did he complain. Recognizing the justness of the charge against him, he merely answered, "But it's necessary to live!"

So they married, or rather, bagged each other, and went to Santa Ann to spend their honeymoon. But on their wedding-night Dona Victorina was attacked by a horrible indigestion and Don Tiburcio thanked God and showed himself solicitous and attentive. A few days afterward, however, he looked into a mirror and smiled a sad smile as he gazed at his naked gums, for he had aged ten years at least.

Very well satisfied with her husband, Dona Victorina had a fine set of false teeth made for him and called in the best tailors of the city to attend to his clothing. She ordered carriages, sent to Batangas and Albay for the best ponies, and even obliged him to keep a pair for the races. Nor did she neglect her own person while she was transforming him. She laid aside the native costume for the European and substituted false frizzes for the simple Filipino coiffure, while her gowns, which fitted her marvelously ill, disturbed the peace of all the quiet neighborhood.

Her husband, who never went out on foot,—she did not care to have his lameness noticed,—took her on lonely drives in unfrequented places to her great sorrow, for she wanted to show him off in public, but she kept quiet out of respect for their honeymoon. The last quarter was coming on when he took up the subject of the rice-powder, telling her that the use of it was false and unnatural. Dona Victorina wrinkled up her eyebrows and stared at his false teeth. He became silent, and she understood his weakness.

She placed a de before her husband's surname, since the de cost nothing and gave "quality" to the name, signing herself "Victorina de los Reyes de De Espadana." This de was such a mania with her that neither the stationer nor her husband could get it out of her head. "If I write only one de it may be thought that you don't have it, you fool!" she said to her husband. [119]

Soon she believed that she was about to become a mother, so she announced to all her acquaintances, "Next month De Espadana and I are going to the Penyinsula. I don't want our son to be born here and be called a revolutionist." She talked incessantly of the journey, having memorized the names of the different ports of call, so that it was a treat to hear her talk: "I'm going to see the isthmus in the Suez Canal—De Espadana thinks it very beautiful and De Espadana has traveled over the whole world." "I'll probably not return to this land of savages." "I wasn't born to live here—Aden or Port Said would suit me better—I've thought so ever since I was a girl." In her geography Dona Victorina divided the world into the Philippines and Spain; rather differently from the clever people who divide it into Spain and America or China for another name.

Her husband realized that these things were barbarisms, but held his peace to escape a scolding or reminders of his stuttering. To increase the illusion of approaching maternity she became whimsical, dressed herself in colors with a profusion of flowers and ribbons, and appeared on the Escolta in a wrapper. But oh, the disenchantment! Three months went by and the dream faded, and now, having no reason for fearing that her son would be a revolutionist, she gave up the trip. She consulted doctors, midwives, old women, but all in vain. Having to the great displeasure of Capitan Tiago jested about St. Pascual Bailon, she was unwilling to appeal to any saint. For this reason a friend of her husband's remarked to her:

"Believe me, senora, you are the only strong-spirited person in this tiresome country."

She had smiled, without knowing what strong-spirited meant, but that night she asked her husband. "My dear," he answered, "the s-strongest s-spirit that I know of is ammonia. My f-friend must have s-spoken f-figuratively."

After that she would say on every possible occasion, "I'm the only ammonia in this tiresome country, speaking figuratively. So Senor N. de N., a Peninsular gentleman of quality, told me."

Whatever she said had to be done, for she had succeeded in dominating her husband completely. He on his part did not put up any great resistance and so was converted into a kind of lap-dog of hers. If she was displeased with him she would not let him go out, and when she was really angry she tore out his false teeth, thus leaving him a horrible sight for several days.

It soon occurred to her that her husband ought to be a doctor of medicine and surgery, and she so informed him.

"My dear, do you w-want me to be arrested?" he asked fearfully.

"Don't be a fool! Leave me to arrange it," she answered. "You're not going to treat any one, but I want people to call you Doctor and me Doctora, see?"

So on the following day Rodoreda [120] received an order to engrave on a slab of black marble: DR. DE ESPADANA, SPECIALIST IN ALL KINDS OF DISEASES. All the servants had to address them by their new titles, and as a result she increased the number of frizzes, the layers of rice-powder, the ribbons and laces, and gazed with more disdain than ever on her poor and unfortunate countrywomen whose husbands belonged to a lower grade of society than hers did. Day by day she felt more dignified and exalted and, by continuing in this way, at the end of a year she would have believed herself to be of divine origin.

These sublime thoughts, however, did not keep her from becoming older and more ridiculous every day. Every time Capitan Tiago saw her and recalled having made love to her in vain he forthwith sent a peso to the church for a mass of thanksgiving. Still, he greatly respected her husband on account of his title of specialist in all kinds of diseases and listened attentively to the few phrases that he was able to stutter out. For this reason and because this doctor was more exclusive than others, Capitan Tiago had selected him to treat his daughter.

In regard to young Linares, that is another matter. When arranging for the trip to Spain, Dona Victorina had thought of having a Peninsular administrator, as she did not trust the Filipinos. Her husband bethought himself of a nephew of his in Madrid who was studying law and who was considered the brightest of the family. So they wrote to him, paying his passage in advance, and when the dream disappeared he was already on his way.

Such were the three persons who had just arrived. While they were partaking of a late breakfast, Padre Salvi came in. The Espadanas were already acquainted with him, and they introduced the blushing young Linares with all his titles.

As was natural, they talked of Maria Clara, who was resting and sleeping. They talked of their journey, and Dona Victorina exhibited all her verbosity in criticising the customs of the provincials,—their nipa houses, their bamboo bridges; without forgetting to mention to the curate her intimacy with this and that high official and other persons of "quality" who were very fond of her.

"If you had come two days ago, Dona Victorina," put in Capitan Tiago during a slight pause, "you would have met his Excellency, the Captain-General. He sat right there."

"What! How's that? His Excellency here! In your house? No!"

"I tell you that he sat right there. If you had only come two days ago—"

"Ah, what a pity that Clarita did not get sick sooner!" she exclaimed with real feeling. Then turning to Linares, "Do you hear, cousin? His Excellency was here! Don't you see now that De Espadana was right when he told you that you weren't going to the house of a miserable Indian? Because, you know, Don Santiago, in Madrid our cousin was the friend of ministers and dukes and dined in the house of Count El Campanario."

"The Duke of La Torte, Victorina," corrected her husband. [121]

"It's the same thing. If you will tell me—"

"Shall I find Padre Damaso in his town?" interrupted Linares, addressing Padre Salvi. "I've been told that it's near here."

"He's right here and will be over in a little while," replied the curate.

"How glad I am of that! I have a letter to him," exclaimed the youth, "and if it were not for the happy chance that brings me here, I would have come expressly to visit him."

In the meantime the happy chance had awakened.

"De Espadana," said Dona Victorina, when the meal was over, "shall we go in to see Clarita?" Then to Capitan Tiago, "Only for you, Don Santiago, only for you! My husband only attends persons of quality, and yet, and yet—! He's not like those here. In Madrid he only visited persons of quality."

They adjourned to the sick girl's chamber. The windows were closed from fear of a draught, so the room was almost dark, being only dimly illuminated by two tapers which burned before an image of the Virgin of Antipolo. Her head covered with a handkerchief saturated in cologne, her body wrapped carefully in white sheets which swathed her youthful form with many folds, under curtains of jusi and pina, the girl lay on her kamagon bed. Her hair formed a frame around her oval countenance and accentuated her transparent paleness, which was enlivened only by her large, sad eyes. At her side were her two friends and Andeng with a bouquet of tuberoses.

De Espadana felt her pulse, examined her tongue, asked a few questions, and said, as he wagged his head from side to side, "S-she's s-sick, but s-she c-can be c-cured." Dona Victorina looked proudly at the bystanders.

"Lichen with milk in the morning, syrup of marshmallow, two cynoglossum pills!" ordered De Espadana.

"Cheer up, Clarita!" said Dona Victorina, going up to her. "We've come to cure you. I want to introduce our cousin."

Linares was so absorbed in the contemplation of those eloquent eyes, which seemed to be searching for some one, that he did not hear Dona Victorina name him.

"Senor Linares," said the curate, calling him out of his abstraction, "here comes Padre Damaso."

It was indeed Padre Damaso, but pale and rather sad. On leaving his bed his first visit was for Maria Clara. Nor was it the Padre Damaso of former times, hearty and self-confident; now he moved silently and with some hesitation.



CHAPTER XLIII

Plans

Without heeding any of the bystanders, Padre Damaso went directly to the bed of the sick girl and taking her hand said to her with ineffable tenderness, while tears sprang into his eyes, "Maria, my daughter, you mustn't die!"

The sick girl opened her eyes and stared at him with a strange expression. No one who knew the Franciscan had suspected in him such tender feelings, no one had believed that under his rude and rough exterior there might beat a heart. Unable to go on, he withdrew from the girl's side, weeping like a child, and went outside under the favorite vines of Maria Clara's balcony to give free rein to his grief.

"How he loves his goddaughter!" thought all present, while Fray Salvi gazed at him motionlessly and in silence, lightly gnawing his lips the while.

When he had become somewhat calm again Dona Victorina introduced Linares, who approached him respectfully. Fray Damaso silently looked him over from head to foot, took the letter offered and read it, but apparently without understanding, for he asked, "And who are you?"

"Alfonso Linares, the godson of your brother-in-law," stammered the young man.

Padre Damaso threw back his body and looked the youth over again carefully. Then his features lighted up and he arose. "So you are the godson of Carlicos!" he exclaimed. "Come and let me embrace you! I got your letter several days ago. So it's you! I didn't recognize you,—which is easily explained, for you weren't born when I left the country,—I didn't recognize you!" Padre Damaso squeezed his robust arms about the young man, who became very red, whether from modesty or lack of breath is not known.

After the first moments of effusion had passed and inquiries about Carlicos and his wife had been made and answered, Padre Damaso asked, "Come now, what does Carlicos want me to do for you?"

"I believe he says something about that in the letter," Linares again stammered.

"In the letter? Let's see! That's right! He wants me to get you a job and a wife. Ahem! A job, a job that's easy! Can you read and write?"

"I received my degree of law from the University."

"Carambas! So you're a pettifogger! You don't show it; you look more like a shy maiden. So much the better! But to get you a wife—"

"Padre, I'm not in such a great hurry," interrupted Linares in confusion.

But Padre Damaso was already pacing from one end of the hallway to the other, muttering, "A wife, a wife!" His countenance was no longer sad or merry but now wore an expression of great seriousness, while he seemed to be thinking deeply. Padre Salvi gazed on the scene from a distance.

"I didn't think that the matter would trouble me so much," murmured Padre Damaso in a tearful voice. "But of two evils, the lesser!" Then raising his voice he approached Linares and said to him, "Come, boy, let's talk to Santiago."

Linares turned pale and allowed himself to be dragged along by the priest, who moved thoughtfully. Then it was Padre Salvi's turn to pace back and forth, pensive as ever.

A voice wishing him good morning drew him from his monotonous walk. He raised his head and saw Lucas, who saluted him humbly.

"What do you want?" questioned the curate's eyes.

"Padre, I'm the brother of the man who was killed on the day of the fiesta," began Lucas in tearful accents.

The curate recoiled and murmured in a scarcely audible voice, "Well?"

Lucas made an effort to weep and wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. "Padre," he went on tearfully, "I've been to Don Crisostomo to ask for an indemnity. First he received me with kicks, saying that he wouldn't pay anything since he himself had run the risk of getting killed through the fault of my dear, unfortunate brother. I went to talk to him yesterday, but he had gone to Manila. He left me five hundred pesos for charity's sake and charged me not to come back again. Ah, Padre, five hundred pesos for my poor brother—five hundred pesos! Ah, Padre—"

At first the curate had listened with surprise and attention while his lips curled slightly with a smile of such disdain and sarcasm at the sight of this farce that, had Lucas noticed it, he would have run away at top speed. "Now what do you want?" he asked, turning away.

"Ah, Padre, tell me for the love of God what I ought to do. The padre has always given good advice."

"Who told you so? You don't belong in these parts."

"The padre is known all over the province."

With irritated looks Padre Salvi approached him and pointing to the street said to the now startled Lucas, "Go home and be thankful that Don Crisostomo didn't have you sent to jail! Get out of here!"

Lucas forgot the part he was playing and murmured, "But I thought—"

"Get out of here!" cried Padre Salvi nervously.

"I would like to see Padre Damaso."

"Padre Damaso is busy. Get out of here!" again ordered the curate imperiously.

Lucas went down the stairway muttering, "He's another of them—as he doesn't pay well—the one who pays best!"

At the sound of the curate's voice all had hurried to the spot, including Padre Damaso, Capitan Tiago, and Linares.

"An insolent vagabond who came to beg and who doesn't want to work," explained Padre Salvi, picking up his hat and cane to return to the convento.



CHAPTER XLIV

An Examination of Conscience

Long days and weary nights passed at the sick girl's bed. After having confessed herself, Maria Clara had suffered a relapse, and in her delirium she uttered only the name of the mother whom she had never known. But her girl friends, her father, and her aunt kept watch at her side. Offerings and alms were sent to all the miraculous images, Capitan Tiago vowed a gold cane to the Virgin of Antipolo, and at length the fever began to subside slowly and regularly.

Doctor De Espadana was astonished at the virtues of the syrup of marshmallow and the infusion of lichen, prescriptions that he had not varied. Dona Victorina was so pleased with her husband that one day when he stepped on the train of her gown she did not apply her penal code to the extent of taking his set of false teeth away from him, but contented herself with merely exclaiming, "If you weren't lame you'd even step on my corset!"—an article of apparel she did not wear.

One afternoon while Sinang and Victoria were visiting their friend, the curate, Capitan Tiago, and Dona Victorina's family were conversing over their lunch in the dining-room.

"Well, I feel very sorry about it," said the doctor; "Padre Damaso also will regret it very much."

"Where do you say they're transferring him to?" Linares asked the curate.

"To the province of Tayabas," replied the curate negligently.

"One who will be greatly affected by it is Maria Clara, when she learns of it," said Capitan Tiago. "She loves him like a father."

Fray Salvi looked at him askance.

"I believe, Padre," continued Capitan Tiago, "that all her illness is the result of the trouble on the last day of the fiesta."

"I'm of the same opinion, and think that you've done well not to let Senor Ibarra see her. She would have got worse.

"If it wasn't for us," put in Dona Victorina, "Clarita would already be in heaven singing praises to God."

"Amen!" Capitan Tiago thought it his duty to exclaim. "It's lucky for you that my husband didn't have any patient of greater quality, for then you'd have had to call in another, and all those here are ignoramuses. My husband—"

"Just as I was saying," the curate in turn interrupted, "I think that the confession that Maria Clara made brought on the favorable crisis which has saved her life. A clean conscience is worth more than a lot of medicine. Don't think that I deny the power of science, above all, that of surgery, but a clean conscience! Read the pious books and you'll see how many cures are effected merely by a clean confession."

"Pardon me," objected the piqued Dona Victorina, "this power of the confessional—cure the alferez's woman with a confession!"

"A wound, madam, is not a form of illness which the conscience can affect," replied Padre Salvi severely. "Nevertheless, a clean confession will preserve her from receiving in the future such blows as she got this morning."

"She deserves them!" went on Dona Victorina as if she had not heard what Padre Salvi said. "That woman is so insolent! In the church she did nothing but stare at me. You can see that she's a nobody. Sunday I was going to ask her if she saw anything funny about my face, but who would lower oneself to speak to people that are not of rank?"

The curate, on his part, continued just as though he had not heard this tirade. "Believe me, Don Santiago, to complete your daughter's recovery it's necessary that she take communion tomorrow. I'll bring the viaticum over here. I don't think she has anything to confess, but yet, if she wants to confess herself tonight—"

"I don't know," Dona Victorina instantly took advantage of a slight hesitation on Padre Salvi's part to add, "I don't understand how there can be men capable of marrying such a fright as that woman is. It's easily seen where she comes from. She's just dying of envy, you can see it! How much does an alferez get?"

"Accordingly, Don Santiago, tell your cousin to prepare the sick girl for the communion tomorrow. I'll come over tonight to absolve her of her peccadillos."

Seeing Aunt Isabel come from the sick-room, he said to her in Tagalog, "Prepare your niece for confession tonight. Tomorrow I'll bring over the viaticum. With that she'll improve faster."

"But, Padre," Linares gathered up enough courage to ask faintly, "you don't think that she's in any danger of dying?"

"Don't you worry," answered the padre without looking at him. "I know what I'm doing; I've helped take care of plenty of sick people before. Besides, she'll decide herself whether or not she wishes to receive the holy communion and you'll see that she says yes."

Capitan Tiago immediately agreed to everything, while Aunt Isabel returned to the sick girl's chamber. Maria Clara was still in bed, pale, very pale, and at her side were her two friends.

"Take one more grain," Sinang whispered, as she offered her a white tablet that she took from a small glass tube. "He says that when you feel a rumbling or buzzing in your ears you are to stop the medicine."

"Hasn't he written to you again?" asked the sick girl in a low voice.

"No, he must be very busy."

"Hasn't he sent any message?"

"He says nothing more than that he's going to try to get the Archbishop to absolve him from the excommunication, so that—"

This conversation was suspended at the aunt's approach. "The padre says for you to get ready for confession, daughter," said the latter. "You girls must leave her so that she can make her examination of conscience."

"But it hasn't been a week since she confessed!" protested Sinang. "I'm not sick and I don't sin as often as that."

"Aba! Don't you know what the curate says: the righteous sin seven times a day? Come, what book shall I bring you, the Ancora, the Ramillete, or the Camino Recto para ir al Cielo?"

Maria Clara did not answer.

"Well, you mustn't tire yourself," added the good aunt to console her. "I'll read the examination myself and you'll have only to recall your sins."

"Write to him not to think of me any more," murmured Maria Clara in Sinang's ear as the latter said good-by to her.

"What?"

But the aunt again approached, and Sinang had to go away without understanding what her friend had meant. The good old aunt drew a chair up to the light, put her spectacles on the end of her nose, and opened a booklet. "Pay close attention, daughter. I'm going to begin with the Ten Commandments. I'll go slow so that you can meditate. If you don't hear well tell me so that I can repeat. You know that in looking after your welfare I'm never weary."

She began to read in a monotonous and snuffling voice the considerations of cases of sinfulness. At the end of each paragraph she made a long pause in order to give the girl time to recall her sins and to repent of them.

Maria Clara stared vaguely into space. After finishing the first commandment, to love God above all things, Aunt Isabel looked at her over her spectacles and was satisfied with her sad and thoughtful mien. She coughed piously and after a long pause began to read the second commandment. The good old woman read with unction and when she had finished the commentaries looked again at her niece, who turned her head slowly to the other side.

"Bah!" said Aunt Isabel to herself. "With taking His holy name in vain the poor child has nothing to do. Let's pass on to the third." [122]

The third commandment was analyzed and commented upon. After citing all the cases in which one can break it she again looked toward the bed. But now she lifted up her glasses and rubbed her eyes, for she had seen her niece raise a handkerchief to her face as if to wipe away tears.

"Hum, ahem! The poor child once went to sleep during the sermon." Then replacing her glasses on the end of her nose, she said, "Now let's see if, just as you've failed to keep holy the Sabbath, you've failed to honor your father and mother."

So she read the fourth commandment in an even slower and more snuffling voice, thinking thus to give solemnity to the act, just as she had seen many friars do. Aunt Isabel had never heard a Quaker preach or she would also have trembled.

The sick girl, in the meantime, raised the handkerchief to her eyes several times and her breathing became more noticeable.

"What a good soul!" thought the old woman. "She who is so obedient and submissive to every one! I've committed more sins and yet I've never been able really to cry."

She then began the fifth commandment with greater pauses and even more pronounced snuffling, if that were possible, and with such great enthusiasm that she did not hear the stifled sobs of her niece. Only in a pause which she made after the comments on homicide, by violence did she notice the groans of the sinner. Then her tone passed into the sublime as she read the rest of the commandment in accents that she tried to reader threatening, seeing that her niece was still weeping.

"Weep, daughter, weep!" she said, approaching the bed. "The more you weep the sooner God will pardon you. Hold the sorrow of repentance as better than that of mere penitence. Weep, daughter, weep! You don't know how much I enjoy seeing you weep. Beat yourself on the breast also, but not hard, for you're still sick."

But, as if her sorrow needed mystery and solitude to make it increase, Maria Clara, on seeing herself observed, little by little stopped sighing and dried her eyes without saying anything or answering her aunt, who continued the reading. Since the wails of her audience had ceased, however, she lost her enthusiasm, and the last commandments made her so sleepy that she began to yawn, with great detriment to her snuffling, which was thus interrupted.

"If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it," thought the good old lady afterwards. "This girl sins like a soldier against the first five and from the sixth to the tenth not a venial sin, just the opposite to us! How the world does move now!"

So she lighted a large candle to the Virgin of Antipolo and two other smaller ones to Our Lady of the Rosary and Our Lady of the Pillar, [123] taking care to put away in a corner a marble crucifix to make it understand that the candles were not lighted for it. Nor did the Virgin of Delaroche have any share; she was an unknown foreigner, and Aunt Isabel had never heard of any miracle of hers.

We do not know what occurred during the confession that night and we respect such secrets. But the confession was a long one and the aunt, who stood watch over her niece at a distance, could note that the curate, instead of turning his ear to hear the words of the sick girl, rather had his face turned toward hers, and seemed only to be trying to read, or divine, her thoughts by gazing into her beautiful eyes.

Pale and with contracted lips Padre Salvi left the chamber. Looking at his forehead, which was gloomy and covered with perspiration, one would have said that it was he who had confessed and had not obtained absolution.

"Jesus, Maria, y Jose!" exclaimed Aunt Isabel, crossing herself to dispel an evil thought, "who understands the girls nowadays?"



CHAPTER XLV

The Hunted

In the dim light shed by the moonbeams sifting through the thick foliage a man wandered through the forest with slow and cautious steps. From time to time, as if to find his way, he whistled a peculiar melody, which was answered in the distance by some one whistling the same air. The man would listen attentively and then make his way in the direction of the distant sound, until at length, after overcoming the thousand obstacles offered by the virgin forest in the night-time, he reached a small open space, which was bathed in the light of the moon in its first quarter. The high, tree-crowned rocks that rose about formed a kind of ruined amphitheater, in the center of which were scattered recently felled trees and charred logs among boulders covered with nature's mantle of verdure.

Scarcely had the unknown arrived when another figure started suddenly from behind a large rock and advanced with drawn revolver. "Who are you?" he asked in Tagalog in an imperious tone, cocking the weapon.

"Is old Pablo among you?" inquired the unknown in an even tone, without answering the question or showing any signs of fear.

"You mean the capitan? Yes, he's here."

"Then tell him that Elias is here looking for him," was the answer of the unknown, who was no other than the mysterious pilot.

"Are you Elias?" asked the other respectfully, as he approached him, not, however, ceasing to cover him with the revolver. "Then come!"

Elias followed him, and they penetrated into a kind of cave sunk down in the depths of the earth. The guide, who seemed to be familiar with the way, warned the pilot when he should descend or turn aside or stoop down, so they were not long in reaching a kind of hall which was poorly lighted by pitch torches and occupied by twelve to fifteen armed men with dirty faces and soiled clothing, some seated and some lying down as they talked fitfully to one another. Resting his arms on a stone that served for a table and gazing thoughtfully at the torches, which gave out so little light for so much smoke, was seen an old, sad-featured man with his head wrapped in a bloody bandage. Did we not know that it was a den of tulisanes we might have said, on reading the look of desperation in the old man's face, that it was the Tower of Hunger on the eve before Ugolino devoured his sons.

Upon the arrival of Elias and his guide the figures partly rose, but at a signal from the latter they settled back again, satisfying themselves with the observation that the newcomer was unarmed. The old man turned his head slowly and saw the quiet figure of Elias, who stood uncovered, gazing at him with sad interest.

"It's you at last," murmured the old man, his gaze lighting up somewhat as he recognized the youth.

"In what condition do I find you!" exclaimed the youth in a suppressed tone, shaking his head.

The old man dropped his head in silence and made a sign to the others, who arose and withdrew, first taking the measure of the pilot's muscles and stature with a glance.

"Yes!" said the old man to Elias as soon as they were alone. "Six months ago when I sheltered you in my house, it was I who pitied you. Now we have changed parts and it is you who pity me. But sit down and tell me how you got here."

"It's fifteen days now since I was told of your misfortune," began the young man slowly in a low voice as he stared at the light. "I started at once and have been seeking you from mountain to mountain. I've traveled over nearly the whole of two provinces."

"In order not to shed innocent blood," continued the old man, "I have had to flee. My enemies were afraid to show themselves. I was confronted merely with some unfortunates who have never done me the least harm."

After a brief pause during which he seemed to be occupied in trying to read the thoughts in the dark countenance of the old man, Elias replied: "I've come to make a proposition to you. Having sought in vain for some survivor of the family that caused the misfortunes of mine, I've decided to leave the province where I live and move toward the North among the independent pagan tribes. Don't you want to abandon the life you have entered upon and come with me? I will be your son, since you have lost your own; I have no family, and in you will find a father."

The old man shook his, head in negation, saying, "When one at my age makes a desperate resolution, it's because there is no other recourse. A man who, like myself, has spent his youth and his mature years toiling for the future of himself and his sons; a man who has been submissive to every wish of his superiors, who has conscientiously performed difficult tasks, enduring all that he might live in peace and quiet—when that man, whose blood time has chilled, renounces all his past and foregoes all his future, even on the very brink of the grave, it is because he has with mature judgment decided that peace does not exist and that it is not the highest good. Why drag out miserable days on foreign soil? I had two sons, a daughter, a home, a fortune, I was esteemed and respected; now I am as a tree shorn of its branches, a wanderer, a fugitive, hunted like a wild beast through the forest, and all for what? Because a man dishonored my daughter, because her brothers called that man's infamy to account, and because that man is set above his fellows with the title of minister of God! In spite of everything, I, her father, I, dishonored in my old age, forgave the injury, for I was indulgent with the passions of youth and the weakness of the flesh, and in the face of irreparable wrong what could I do but hold my peace and save what remained to me? But the culprit, fearful of vengeance sooner or later, sought the destruction of my sons. Do you know what he did? No? You don't know, then, that he pretended that there had been a robbery committed in the convento and that one of my sons figured among the accused? The other could not be included because he was in another place at the time. Do you know what tortures they were subjected to? You know of them, for they are the same in all the towns! I, I saw my son hanging by the hair, I heard his cries, I heard him call upon me, and I, coward and lover of peace, hadn't the courage either to kill or to die! Do you know that the theft was not proved, that it was shown to be a false charge, and that in punishment the curate was transferred to another town, but that my son died as a result of his tortures? The other, the one who was left to me, was not a coward like his father, so our persecutor was still fearful that he would wreak vengeance on him, and, under the pretext of his not having his cedula, [124] which he had not carried with him just at that time, had him arrested by the Civil Guard, mistreated him, enraged and harassed him with insults until he was driven to suicide! And I, I have outlived so much shame; but if I had not the courage of a father to defend my sons, there yet remains to me a heart burning for revenge, and I will have it! The discontented are gathering under my command, my enemies increase my forces, and on the day that I feel myself strong enough I will descend to the lowlands and in flames sate my vengeance and end my own existence. And that day will come or there is no God!" [125]

The old man arose trembling. With fiery look and hollow voice, he added, tearing his long hair, "Curses, curses upon me that I restrained the avenging hands of my sons—I have murdered them! Had I let the guilty perish, had I confided less in the justice of God and men, I should now have my sons—fugitives, perhaps, but I should have them; they would not have died under torture! I was not born to be a father, so I have them not! Curses upon me that I had not learned with my years to know the conditions under which I lived! But in fire and blood by my own death I will avenge them!"

In his paroxysm of grief the unfortunate father tore away the bandage, reopening a wound in his forehead from which gushed a stream of blood.

"I respect your sorrow," said Elias, "and I understand your desire for revenge. I, too, am like you, and yet from fear of injuring the innocent I prefer to forget my misfortunes."

"You can forget because you are young and because you haven't lost a son, your last hope! But I assure you that I shall injure no innocent one. Do you see this wound? Rather than kill a poor cuadrillero, who was doing his duty, I let him inflict it."

"But look," urged Elias, after a moment's silence, "look what a frightful catastrophe you are going to bring down upon our unfortunate people. If you accomplish your revenge by your own hand, your enemies will make terrible reprisals, not against you, not against those who are armed, but against the peaceful, who as usual will be accused—and then the eases of injustice!"

"Let the people learn to defend themselves, let each one defend himself!"

"You know that that is impossible. Sir, I knew you in other days when you were happy; then you gave me good advice, will you now permit me—"

The old man folded his arms in an attitude of attention. "Sir," continued Elias, weighing his words well, "I have had the good fortune to render a service to a young man who is rich, generous, noble, and who desires the welfare of his country. They say that this young man has friends in Madrid—I don't know myself—but I can assure you that he is a friend of the Captain-General's. What do you say that we make him the bearer of the people's complaints, if we interest him in the cause of the unhappy?"

The old man shook his head. "You say that he is rich? The rich think only of increasing their wealth, pride and show blind them, and as they are generally safe, above all when they have powerful friends, none of them troubles himself about the woes of the unfortunate. I know all, because I was rich!"

"But the man of whom I speak is not like the others. He is a son who has been insulted over the memory of his father, and a young man who, as he is soon to have a family, thinks of the future, of a happy future for his children."

"Then he is a man who is going to be happy—our cause is not for happy men."

"But it is for men who have feelings!"

"Perhaps!" replied the old man, seating himself. "Suppose that he agrees to carry our cry even to the Captain-General, suppose that he finds in the Cortes [126] delegates who will plead for us; do you think that we shall get justice?"

"Let us try it before we resort to violent measure," answered Elias. "You must be surprised that I, another unfortunate, young and strong, should propose to you, old and weak, peaceful measures, but it's because I've seen as much misery caused by us as by the tyrants. The defenseless are the ones who pay."

"And if we accomplish nothing?"

"Something we shall accomplish, believe me, for all those who are in power are not unjust. But if we accomplish nothing, if they disregard our entreaties, if man has become deaf to the cry of sorrow from his kind, then I will put myself under your orders!"

The old man embraced the youth enthusiastically. "I accept your proposition, Elias. I know that you will keep your word. You will come to me, and I shall help you to revenge your ancestors, you will help me to revenge my sons, my sons that were like you!"