The people of the town have made their preparation for the festival in honor of the patron saint, San Diego, and are gossiping about it, and about the arrival of Maria Clara, accompanied by her aunt Isabel. They rejoiced over it, because they liked her, and admired her beauty very much. They also rejoiced in the change it had made in the priest, Father Salvi. “He is often absent-minded during the holy services,” they said. “He scarcely speaks with us, and he plainly grows more thin and taciturn.” His cook saw this constantly and complained of the little honor that he did his dishes. But what most excited the wonder of the people were the two lights which one could see shining in the convent during the night, while Father Salvi was visiting at the house of Maria Clara! The old dames crossed themselves and kept on gossiping.
Juan Crisostomo Ibarra had telegraphed from the capital of the province his compliments to Aunt Isabel and her niece, but he had not explained his absence. Many thought that he had been arrested for assaulting Father Salvi on the afternoon of “All Saint’s Day.” But the comments increased still more when, on the afternoon of the third day, they saw Ibarra get out of a carriage in front of the little house of his betrothed, and courteously salute the priest, who was also making his way thither.
If we go to Maria Clara’s house, we will find it like a little nest among orange and ilang-ilang trees, surrounded by flowers and vines which creep up on bamboo sticks and wires, diffusing their delicious perfume. The rich fragrance of the ilang-ilang reaches even to the window which looks out on the lake. Here sit the two young lovers. Ibarra was saying to Maria Clara:
“To-morrow, before the first ray of morning, your desire shall be fulfilled. To-night, I shall arrange all so that nothing will be lacking.”
“Then I will write to my friends, so that they may come along. Arrange it so that the priest cannot come.”
“And why?”
“Because he seems to be watching me. His deep and sombre eyes pain me. When he fixes them upon me, they frighten me. He speaks to me of extraordinary things, so incomprehensible, so strange. He asked me once if I had not dreamed about my mother’s letters. I believe he is half crazy. My friend Sinang, and Andeng, my foster sister, say that he is a little out of his head, for he neither eats nor bathes, and he lives entirely in the darkness. Don’t have him come!”
“We cannot but invite him,” replied Ibarra. “The customs of the country require it. He is the priest of your house and, besides, he has conducted himself nobly toward me. When the Alcalde consulted him on the business of which I have spoken to you, he had nothing but praises for me and did not pretend to offer the slightest obstacle. But I see that you are serious. I shall take care that he does not accompany us in the boat.”
Light steps were heard. They were those of the priest, who was approaching with a forced smile on his lips. They began to talk of different subjects, about the weather, the town and the festival. Maria Clara devised an excuse and went out.
“And while we are speaking about festivals,” said Ibarra, “allow me to invite you to the one which we are going to celebrate to-morrow. It is going to be a country picnic, which we and our friends are planning.”
“And where will it be held?”
“The girls want to hold it near the brook in the woods, near the balitî tree. So we will have to get up early to reach the place before the sun gets hot.”
The priest reflected, and a moment later replied: “The invitation is very tempting, and I accept it in order to prove that I hold no grudge against you for what has happened in the past. But I will have to be a little late, as I must fulfill my religious duties first. How happy to be like you, entirely free and independent!”
A few minutes later, Ibarra took his leave in order to arrange for the picnic on the following day. It was already quite dark when he left the house.
The stars were still shining in the sapphire heavens, and the birds were sleeping on the branches of the trees, when a jolly little party, by the light from the pitch torches, wandered through the streets of the town toward the lake.
Five young maidens, clinging to each other’s hands or belts, tripped along briskly. Behind them came several elderly women and a number of servants gracefully carrying on their heads baskets filled with provisions and various dishes for the picnic. On seeing their joyful faces, with their youthful smiles, their beautiful black hair as it floated in the breeze, and the wide folds of their pretty dresses, you would have taken them for goddesses of the night and would have thought that they were fleeing from day—if perchance you had not already known that it was Maria Clara and her four friends: jolly Sinang; her cousin, the serious Victoria; beautiful Iday; and the pensive Neneng, pretty, modest and timid.
They were talking with animation; they laughed; pinched each other; whispered in each other’s ears and then burst out in shouts of merriment.
“You girls will wake up everybody in town. Don’t you know that people are still asleep?” said Aunt Isabel, reprimanding them. “When we were young, we didn’t make such a noise.”
“But you didn’t get up as early as we do, nor were the old men such great sleepers in your day,” replied little Sinang.
They were quiet for a moment and were trying to talk in a low voice, but they quickly forgot themselves and were again filling the streets with their youthful laughter and melodious voices.
Several young fellows were coming down the street, lighting their way with large bamboo torches. They were marching along almost noiselessly to the tune of a guitar.
“That guitar sounds as though some beggar were playing it,” said Sinang, laughing. But when the young fellows caught up with the rest of the party, the girls suddenly became as quiet and as serious as though they never had learned how to laugh. The young men, however, chatted away, saluted the ladies, laughed and smiled and asked half a dozen questions without giving the girls time to answer any one of them.
The two large bancas,1 which had been secured to transport the picnic party to the fishing grounds, were fastened together and picturesquely adorned with wreaths and garlands of flowers and a large number of vari-colored candles. Paper lanterns hung from the improvised covering of the bancas. Alternately with these were roses, pinks and baskets of fruits such as pineapples, kasuys, bananas, guayabas and lanzones. Ibarra had brought his carpets, blankets and rugs and arranged comfortable seats for the ladies. The poles and paddles used to propel the bancas had also been ornamented. In the better banca were a harp, guitars, accordeons, and a buffalo horn; while, in the other boat, a little fire had been lighted in an improvised stove in order that tea, coffee and salabat2 might be prepared for the light breakfast.
“The women sit here; the men, there,” said the mothers on stepping into the banca. “Sit still and don’t move, or we will be capsized.”
“Cross yourselves before we start,” said Aunt Isabel, as she traced the form of a cross on her breast.
“And are we to be here all by ourselves,” asked Sinang, on seeing how the girls had been separated from the young men, by the assignment of the seats. Then making a grimace she asked again, “Are we going to be all alone? Aray!”
This aray was caused by a little pinch which her mother had given her on the arm in the way of a reprimand for her complaint.
The bancas were now putting off slowly from the shore. The light from the torches and Japanese lanterns was reflected in the water, for the lake was as smooth as a mirror. In the far eastern horizon could be seen the first rosy tints of the approaching dawn.
Everything was very quiet. The young women, in consequence of the separation from the young men, seemed to be absorbed in meditation.
As the water was smooth as glass and the bamboo weirs where the fish were to be found were not far off, and, it was still early, it was decided that all should stop paddling and take breakfast. The lights were put out, for the day had dawned and preparations were made for desayuno.3
The entire party became jolly as they breathed in the light breeze that had come up. Even the women, so full of presentiments a few moments ago, were now laughing and joking among themselves.
One young man alone of all the party remained silent. He was the pilot, an athletic-looking fellow, and interesting on account of his large, sad eyes and the severe lines of his lips. His long, black hair fell gracefully over his powerful neck. He wore a shirt of coarse dark cloth, through which his powerful muscles could be plainly seen as he manipulated with his strong arms the wide, heavy paddle as if it were only a pen. This paddle served both to propel and to steer the bancas.
More than once he was embarrassed when he caught Maria Clara looking at him. Then he would turn his eyes quickly to some other direction and look far off toward the mountain, or the shore of the lake. The young maiden pitied him in his solitude and offered him some biscuits. The pilot looked at her with surprise, but only for a moment. He took the biscuits, thanked her very briefly and in a voice scarcely audible.
No one else took any notice of him. The happy laughter and jolly conversation of the young men did not cause him to relax a single muscle of his face. Not even Sinang, with all her jollity, had any effect on him.
“Wait a minute!” said Aunt Isabel to the boatman’s son, who had made ready his net and was just about to go up on the baklad to take out the fish from the little enclosure at the end of the weir. “We must have everything ready, so that the fish may pass directly from the water to the pot.”
Andeng, the pretty foster sister of Maria Clara, despite her clear complexion and laughing face, had the reputation of being a good cook. She prepared the rice, tomatoes, and camias,4 while some of the young men tried to aid or bother her, perhaps in order to win her good will. The other girls were busy cleaning and making ready the lettuce, cabbage and peas, and cutting up paayap in pieces about the size of a cigarette.
Finally Andeng announced that the kettle was ready to receive its guests—the fish.
The fisherman’s son went up on top of the rack at the end of the weir. He took a position at the narrow entrance, over which might have been written: “All who enter here leave hope behind,” if indeed the unfortunate fish would know how to read and understand it, for a fish who enters never gets out except to die. The rack is almost circular in form and about a meter in diameter, and is so arranged that a man can stand on top of one end of it and thus take out the fish with his net.
“There, it wouldn’t tire me a bit to fish that way,” said Sinang, quite joyful.
All were watching attentively. Already some of them in their vivid imaginations thought they could see the fish wiggling their tails and trying to get out of the little net, their scales shining in the bright sun. However, the young man failed to catch a single fish in his first attempt.
“It ought to be full of fish,” said Albino, in a low voice. “It is more than five days since we visited the place last.”
The fisherman drew out his net a second time, but not a fish was there in it. The water, as it trickled through the meshes of the net in countless drops which reflected the rays of the sun, seemed to laugh in silvery tones. An “Ah” of surprise, disgust, and disappointment escaped from the lips of all.
The young fellow repeated the same operation, but with a similar result.
“You don’t understand your business!” said Albino to him as he stepped up on the rack and took the net from the hands of the youngster. “Now you will see! Andeng, open up the kettle!”
But Albino did not understand his business, either. The net came up empty as before. All began to laugh.
“Don’t make any noise,” he said, “or the fish will hear it and will keep from being caught. This net must have a hole in it somewhere.”
But every mesh in the net was perfect.
“Let me take it!” said Leon, Iday’s lover, to Albino.
Leon first made sure that the enclosure was in good condition and then examined the net carefully and satisfied himself that there was nothing wrong with it. He then asked: “Are you sure that no one has been out here for five days?”
“We are sure! The last time any one was out here was on All Saints’ Day.”
“Well, then, I am going to bring out something this time, unless the lake is bewitched.”
Leon lowered the net by its bamboo handle into the water, but a look of surprise was painted on his face. In silence he looked toward the neighboring mountain and continued moving the handle of the net from one side to the other. Finally, without taking the net out of the water, he murmured in a low voice: “An alligator.”
“An alligator!” exclaimed half a dozen voices, and the word was repeated again while all stood frightened and stupefied.
“What did you say?” they asked.
“I say that there is an alligator caught in the rack,” said Leon, and sticking the handle of the net into the water again he continued: “Do you hear that sound? That is not sand, it is hard skin, the back of the alligator. Do you see how he wiggles the bamboo pickets in the rack? He is struggling hard but he cannot do anything. Wait. He is a large fellow; his body measures a palm or more in width.”
“What shall be done?” was the question.
“Catch him,” said one.
“Jesús! And who will catch him?”
Nobody offered to dive down to the bottom of the rack. The water was very deep.
“We ought to tie him to our banca and drag him along in triumph,” said Sinang. “The idea of his eating the fish which we ought to have!”
“I have never seen to this day a live alligator,” said Maria Clara.
The pilot rose to his feet, took a long rope and went up cautiously to the platform on the top of the rack. Leon gave up his position to him.
With the exception of Maria Clara, none up till now had paid any attention to him. Now every one was admiring his fine stature.
To the great surprise of all and in spite of all their cries, the pilot leaped into the enclosure.
“Take this knife!” shouted Crisostomo, drawing out a wide-bladed Toledo knife.
But already a thousand little bubbles were rising to the surface of the water, and all that was going on in the depths below was wrapped in mystery.
“Jesús, Maria y José!” exclaimed the women. “We are going to have a misfortune. Jesús, Maria y José!”
“Don’t be alarmed, señoras,” said the old boatman. “If there is any one in this province who can do it, it is that fellow who has just gone down.”
“What is his name?” they asked.
“We call him ‘The Pilot’; he is the best I have ever seen, only he does not like his profession.”
The water was being stirred violently, and it seemed that a fierce fight was being waged in the depths of the lake. The sides of the enclosure swayed to and fro, while the water seemed to be swirled by a dozen currents. All held their breath. Ibarra grasped tightly the handle of his sharp knife.
The fight seemed to be at an end. The head of the young man rose to the surface of the water, and the sight was greeted by joyful shouts from all. The eyes of the women were full of tears.
The pilot crawled up on the platform carrying in his hand the end of the rope, and as soon as he was able pulled on it.
The monster appeared on top of the water. He had the rope tied twice around his neck, and once behind his forelegs. He was a large fellow, as Leon had already announced. He was beautifully colored and green moss was growing on his back. He bellowed like an ox, struck his tail against the sides of the enclosure, snapped at them, and opened his black, frightful-looking mouth, showing his long teeth.
The pilot, unassisted, raised him up out of the water. No one offered to help him. Just as soon as the animal was out of the water and placed on the platform, the pilot put his foot on his back. Then, closing the animal’s massive jaws, he tried to tie his big snout tight with the rope. The reptile made a last effort, doubled up his body, struck the floor of the platform with his powerful tail and, breaking loose, made a leap into the water of the lake, on the other side of the weir, at the same time dragging with him his captor. It seemed that the pilot would be a dead man. A cry of horror went up from all.
Like a flash of lightning, another body leaped into the water. So quickly was it done that they had scarcely time to see that it was Ibarra. Maria Clara did not faint, simply because the Filipinos do not know how to faint.
They all saw the water become colored, and tinged with blood. The young fisherman leaped to the bottom with his bolo in his hand; his father followed him. But, scarcely had they disappeared, when they saw Crisostomo and the pilot reappear, clinging to the body of the reptile. The monster’s white belly was slashed, while in his throat the knife still stuck like a nail.
It is impossible to describe the joy that came over the party at the sight; all arms were extended to help them out of the water. The old women were half crazed with joy, and laughed and prayed. Andeng forgot that her kettle had been boiling three different times; now it was leaking and had put out the fire. The only one who could not speak was Maria Clara.
Ibarra was unhurt. The pilot had a slight scratch on his arm.
“I owe you my life!” said he to Ibarra as the latter wrapped himself up in the shawls and blankets. The voice of the pilot had a ring of sincerity.
“You are too bold,” replied Ibarra. “Another time you must not tempt God.”
“If you had never come back!” exclaimed Maria, pale and trembling.
“If I had never come back and you had followed after me,” replied the young man, “I would have been with all my family in the bottom of the lake.” Ibarra was thinking that in those depths lay the remains of his father.
The mothers of the girls did not want to go to the other baklad or weir. They preferred to go back home happy, for the day had commenced with a bad omen and they feared that they would suffer many misfortunes.
“It is all because we have not heard mass,” sighed one of them.
“But what misfortune have we had, señoras?” asked Ibarra. “The alligator was the unfortunate one.”
“That goes to show,” concluded Albino, “that, in all his fishing life, this reptile has never heard mass. I never saw him, I am sure, among the other reptiles who frequent the church.”
The bancas were turned toward the other fish rack, and it was necessary for Andeng to get the water boiling again.
The day was advancing; a breeze was blowing; little waves were stirred up on the water, and rippled around the alligator. The music began again. Iday was playing the harp, while the young men were playing the accordeons and guitars with more or less skill. But the one who played best was Albino.
The other weir was visited with an entire lack of confidence. Many of the party expected to find there the mate to the alligator, but Nature fooled them and every time that the net was lowered it was brought up full of fish.
They then headed for the shore of the lake, where is situated the forest of trees centuries old, owned by Ibarra. There in the shade and near the crystal brook the party were to take their breakfast among the flowers or under improvised tents.
Very early that morning Father Salví had said mass, cleaning, according to his custom, a dozen dirty souls in a few minutes. The reading of a few letters, which had arrived well sealed with wax, seemed to cause the worthy curate to lose his appetite, for he allowed his chocolate to get cold.
“The Father is ill,” said the cook as he prepared another cup. “It is several days since he has eaten anything; of six dishes which I put on the table for him, he has not touched two.”
“It must be that he does not sleep well,” replied the servant. “He has nightmare since he changed his bedroom. Every day his eyes are sinking deeper, he grows gradually thinner, and is very yellow.”
As a matter of fact, it was a pitiful sight to behold Father Salví. He did not care to touch his second cup of chocolate, nor to taste the Cebu cakes. He walked pensively to and fro in the spacious sala, crumpling between his bony fingers some letters which he would read from time to time. Finally, he called for his carriage, got ready and ordered the coachman to take him to the woods where the picnic was to be held. Arriving at the place, Father Salví dismissed the carriage and all alone, entered the forest.
A shady but difficult path runs through the thicket and leads to the brook which is formed by the hot springs so plentiful at the base of Mount Makiling.
For some time, Father Salví was wandering among the thick underbrush, here trying to evade the thorns which entangled his habit of guingon as if to detain him; there trying to step over the roots of the trees which stuck up through the ground and made the inexperienced traveler stumble again and again. Suddenly he stopped. Mirthful laughter and the sound of young voices reached his ears. The voices and the laughter seemed to come from the direction of the brook and each time seemed to be coming nearer.
“I am going to see if I can find a heron’s nest,” said a voice, beautiful and sweet, and at once recognized by the curate. “You know they say that if a person possesses one of those nests he can make himself invisible to everybody. How I would like to see him and not have him see me! I could follow him everywhere.”
Father Salví hid behind the thick trunk of an old tree and listened.
“That is to say, you want to do with him what the curate does with you: watch him everywhere?” replied the merry voice. “Be careful, for jealousy makes one grow thin and the eyes sink in.”
“No, no. It is not jealousy, it is pure curiosity,” replied the silvery voice, while the other repeated, “yes, yes, jealousy; that’s what it is.” And then she broke out in a merry chuckle.
“If I were jealous of him I would not use the heron’s nest to make myself invisible to him, but would make him invisible to everybody else.”
“But then you yourself would not be able to see him and you would not want that to happen. The best thing to do, if we find a heron’s nest is to give it to the priest. Then he could watch us as much as he pleased, and we would not be troubled with the sight of him. What do you think of the idea?”
“But I don’t believe in the story about the heron’s nests, anyway,” replied one. “But if I were really jealous I would know how to keep watch of a person and make myself invisible....”
“And how? How would you do it? Perhaps you would do as Sister Listener does in the convent?”
This reference to days passed in the convent provoked a jolly laugh all around.
Father Salví saw from his hiding-place Maria Clara, Victoria, and Sinang, wading in the stream. All three were looking into the water, which was like a mirror, in search of the heron’s nest. They were getting wet up to their knees, the wide folds of their bathing skirts allowing one to guess how graceful were the curves of their limbs. They were wearing their hair loose and their arms were bare. Striped, bright-colored bodices covered their breasts. The three lasses, at the same time that they were hunting for that which did not exist, collected flowers and plants which were growing on the banks of the stream.
The religious Acteon, pale and immovable, stood gazing upon Maria Clara, that chaste Diana. The eyes which shone in those dark orbits never tired of admiring those white and beautiful arms, that pretty, round neck, those tiny and rosy feet as they played in the water. As he contemplated all this, strange feelings were awakened in his breast, new dreams took possession of his burning mind.
The three pretty forms disappeared in a thick growth of bamboo behind a bend in the stream, but their cruel allusions could still be heard by the curate. Intoxicated with the strange ideas in his head, staggering, and covered with perspiration, Father Salví left his hiding-place and looked about him in all directions with staring eyes. He stood immovable, in doubt. He took a few steps as if to follow the young women, but he turned about, and walked along the bank of the stream in order to find the rest of the picnic party.
Some distance ahead, in the middle of the stream, he could see a bathing place well enclosed by bamboo. He could hear, merry laughter and feminine accents coming from that direction. Still further down the stream he could see a bamboo bridge and some men in bathing. In the meantime, a multitude of servants were bustling about the improvised fireplaces, some engaged in plucking chickens, others in washing rice and roasting pig. And there on the opposite bank, in a clearing which had been made, were a number of men and women under a tent. The tent had been made by hanging canvas from the limbs of some of the old trees and by erecting a few poles. There in the group was the alferez, the teniente mayor, the coadjutor, the gobernadorcillo, the school teacher, a number, of past captains and lieutenants, including even Captain Basilio, who was Sinang’s father, and the former rival of the deceased Don Rafael. Ibarra had said to him: “The mere fact that we are parties to a law-suit does not mean that we have to be enemies.” So it was that the celebrated orator of the conservative party had accepted the invitation to the picnic with enthusiasm, and had even brought along three turkeys and put his servants at the disposition of the young man.
The parish priest was received with respect and deference by all, even by the alferez.
“But where did Your Reverence come from?” some one asked on seeing his face full of scratches, and his habit covered with leaves and pieces of dried branches. “Has Your Reverence fallen down?”
“No, I lost my way,” replied Father Salví, looking down and examining his clothes.
Bottles of lemonade were opened, green cocoanuts were cut in two so that those who were coming out of the bath might have the refreshing milk to drink and the delicate meat to eat. The young women in addition received rosaries of sampagas interwoven with roses and ilang-ilang, which gave a beautiful fragrance to their loose hair. Some were sitting or lying in hammocks which had been hung from the branches of the trees; others were entertaining themselves in a game that was going on around a large, flat stone. Playing cards, checkers, dice and many other games were in progress.
They showed the alligator to the curate, but he seemed absorbed and paid no attention until they mentioned the fact that the wide wound in the animal’s neck had been made by Ibarra. Then, too, the pilot, the principal figure in the incident, had disappeared and could not be found anywhere.
Finally Maria Clara came out of the bath, accompanied by her friends, fresh as a rose when first it blooms, and when the dew on its divine petals glistens like diamonds. Her first smile was for Ibarra; and her first frown for Father Salví. The latter noticed this, but he did not even sigh.
It was now time to eat. The curate, the coadjutor, the alferez, the gobernadorcillo, and some of the captains, together with the tenente mayor sat down at the table over which Ibarra presided. The mothers of the girls did not allow any one to eat at the table with their charges.
“Do you know anything yet, Señor Alferez, about the criminal who assaulted Father Dámaso?” asked Father Salví.
“About what criminal, Father?” asked the alferez, looking at the parish priest through his empty wine glass.
“About whom could it be? About the one who, day before yesterday, struck Father Dámaso, of course.”
“Struck Father Dámaso?” asked a number of voices.
The coadjutor was seen to smile.
“Yes; and Father Dámaso is now in bed. It is believed that the culprit was that same Elias who once threw you into a mud-hole, Señor Alferez.”
The alferez colored up a little, either from shame or too much wine.
“I thought that you were interested in the affair,” continued Father Salví, with a little jeering in his manner.
The alferez bit his lips and mumbled out a silly excuse.
The meal ended and, while tea and coffee were being served, the young and old distributed themselves about in various groups. Some picked up playing cards and others dice, but the young women, anxious to know the future, preferred to try their luck with the wheel of fortune.
“Come, Señor Ibarra,” shouted Captain Basilio, who was a little bit jolly. “We have a law-suit that has been pending for fifteen years, and there isn’t a judge in the Supreme Court in Manila who can decide it. Let us see if we can settle it on the chess board. What do you say?”
The game of chess began with much solemnity.
“If the game is a draw,” said Ibarra, “it is understood that the suit is off.”
About the middle of the game, Ibarra received a telegram which made his eyes glisten and his face grow pale. He put it in his pocket-book, not, however, without directing a glance at the group of young women who continued with much laughter to play the wheel of fortune.
“Check to the king!” said the young man.
Captain Basilio had no other resort than to hide him behind the queen.
“Check to the queen!” said Ibarra, threatening it with his rook, which was defended by a pawn.
Not being able to cover the queen, nor to retire it on account of the fact that the king was behind it, Captain Basilio asked permission to study the situation a little.
“Certainly, with much pleasure,” replied Ibarra. “I will take advantage of the opportunity, for I have something to say to some of the members of that group over there.”
And rising to his feet, he gave his opponent half an hour to study it out.
Iday held in her hands the strip of cardboard on which was written forty-eight questions, while Albino held the book which contained the answers.
“That’s a lie! It’s not so! It lies!” cried Sinang, half in tears.
“What is the matter with you?” asked Maria Clara.
“Just imagine it: I asked the question ‘When will I have some sense?’ I threw the dice and he, this all-night-watching priest (Albino, the ex-seminary student) reads from the book: ‘When the frogs grow hairs.’ What do you think of that?”
And Sinang made a face at the former religious student, who was still laughing heartily.
“Who told you to ask such a question?” said her cousin Victoria. “Any one who asks such a question deserves just such an answer.”
“You ask a question!” said they all to Ibarra. “We have agreed that the one who receives the best answer shall receive a gift from the others. We have all asked our questions already.”
“And who has received the best answer?”
“Maria Clara, Maria Clara!” replied Sinang. “We made her ask the question whether you loved her or not: ‘Is your lover faithful and constant,’ and the book replied——”
But Maria Clara colored up, and, putting her hands over Sinang’s mouth, did not allow her to finish what she had to say.
“Then, let me try it,” said Crisostomo, smiling.
He asked the question: “Will I succeed in my present undertaking?”
“You are going to get a bad answer,” exclaimed Sinang.
Ibarra threw the dice, and noting the number, they looked for the page in the little book with the corresponding answer.
“Dreams are only dreams,” read Albino.
Ibarra took out his pocket-book and opened it trembling.
“This time your book has lied,” he said, full of joy. “Read this!”
“Plan for school house approved; other matter decided in your favor.”
“What does that mean?” they all asked.
“Did you not tell me that the one who received the best answer was to get a present?” the young man asked, his voice trembling with emotion while he carefully divided the paper into two parts.
“Yes, yes!”
“Well, then! This is my gift,” he said handing half of the telegram to Maria Clara. “I am going to have a school house for boys and girls erected in the town. This school house will be my gift.”
“And this other piece: what does that mean?”
“I will give that to the one who has obtained the worst answer.”
“Then that is for me!” exclaimed Sinang.
Ibarra gave her the piece of paper and quickly went off.
“And what does this mean?”
But the happy young man was already far away from the little group and he did not reply. He had gone to finish the game of chess.
After making the present to his betrothed, Ibarra was so happy that he began to play without stopping to think or even examining carefully the position of the chess. As a result, although Captain Basilio had defended himself only by the greatest effort, the young man made so many mistakes that the game resulted in a draw.
“We end the suit, we end the suit!” said Captain Basilio, happy over his success.
“Yes, we declare it off,” repeated the young man, “whatever decision the judges may have been able to reach.”
Each grasped the hand of the other and shook it with effusion.
In the meantime, while those present were celebrating the ending of the law-suit, of which both had long been tired, four Civil Guards and a sergeant suddenly arrived on the scene. They were all armed and had their bayonets fixed, a fact which naturally disturbed the merriment and brought fright into the circle of women.
“Let everybody be quiet!” cried the sergeant. “Whoever moves will be shot!”
In spite of this gruff boast, Ibarra rose to his feet and approached the sergeant.
“What do you wish?” he asked.
“That you give up at once the criminal named Elias who acted as pilot for your party this morning,” he replied, in a threatening tone.
“A criminal? The pilot? You must be mistaken!” replied Ibarra.
“No, sir; that Elias is now accused of another crime, of having laid his hands on a priest——”
“Ah! And is the pilot the one?”
“He is the same one, so we are told. You are allowing people of bad reputation to attend your festivals, Señor Ibarra.”
Ibarra looked at him from head to foot and replied with supreme contempt: “I don’t have to account to you for my actions. At our festivals everybody is well received, and you yourself, if you had come, would have been given a seat at the table, the same as the alferez who was here among us two hours ago.”
Saying this, Ibarra turned his back to him. The sergeant bit his mustache and ordered his men to search everywhere among the trees for the pilot, whose description he had on a piece of paper.
Don Filipo said to him: “Take note that this description corresponds to that of nine-tenths of the natives. Take care that you do not make a mistake!”
At last the soldiers returned, saying that they had not been able to discover either a banca, or a man that aroused their suspicion. The sergeant murmured a few indistinct words and then marched off.
Soon the people became jolly again, but questions, wonder and comments were without end.
So the afternoon passed and the hour for departure arrived. Just as the sun was dropping below the horizon they left the woods. The trees seemed sad and all the surroundings seemed to bid them farewell and say: “Good-bye, happy youth; good-bye, dream of a day.”
And a little later, by the light of glowing torches of bamboo and with the music of guitars, we leave them on the road toward the town.
On the morning of the following day, Juan Crisostomo Ibarra, after visiting his estates, went to the house of Tasio, the philosopher, his father’s friend.
Quiet reigned in the old man’s garden. The swallows were flying about the gables of the house, but they were making scarcely a sound. The windows were covered with vines which clung to the old, moss-covered wall and made the house appear all the more solitary and quiet. Ibarra tied his horse to a post and, walking almost on tip-toes, crossed the clean and well-cultivated garden. He went up the stairs and, as the door was open, walked in. An old man leaned over a book in which he seemed to be writing. On the walls of the room were collections of insects and leaves, maps, and some shelves of books and manuscripts.
Tasio was so absorbed in his work that he did not notice the arrival of the youth. The latter, not wishing to disturb the philosopher, tried to retire from the place, but the old man, looking up, said: “What? Are you here?” and showed no little surprise in his look.
“Excuse me,” replied Ibarra, “I see that you are very busy.”
“As a matter of fact I was writing a little, but it is not urgent, and I want to rest myself. Can I be useful to you in any way?”
Ibarra drew some papers from his pocket-book and replied: “My father was wont to consult you in many things, and I remember that he never had to do other than congratulate himself when he followed your advice. I have on my hands a small undertaking and I want to be assured of success.”
Ibarra then related to him briefly his plan for the erection of a school house in honor of his betrothed. He showed the stupefied philosopher the plans which had been returned from Manila.
“I wish that you would advise me as to what persons I ought first to have on my side in order to make the undertaking most successful. You are well acquainted with the inhabitants of the town. I have just arrived here and am almost a stranger in my country.”
The old man examined the plans which were laid out before him. His eyes were full of tears.
“That which you are going to carry out was a dream of mine, the dream of a poor fool,” he exclaimed, greatly moved. “And now, my first advice to you is that you never come to consult me in regard to the matter.”
The young man looked at him in surprise.
“Because sensible people,” he continued, in an ironical tone, “will take you for a fool, like myself. People always consider every one a fool who does not think just as they do and, for this reason, they call me crazy. But I am obliged to them for that, for woe be to me when the time arrives that they say I have sense! That day, should it ever come, would deprive me of the little liberty which I have purchased by sacrificing my reputation for being sane.”
And the old man shook his head, as if to drive away a thought and continued: “My second advice to you is that you consult the curate, the gobernadorcillo, and all the people of good standing. They will all give you bad, foolish and useless advice, but to consult does not mean to obey. Try to appear to be following their advice as far as possible and make them think you are working according to their wishes.”
Ibarra sat thinking for a moment and then replied: “The advice is good but difficult to follow. Could I not carry out my work without a shadow reflecting upon it? Could I not carry out the good work in spite of all? Does truth need to be clothed in the garments of falsehood?”
“That’s it. Nobody likes the bare truth.”
“I hope to be able to realize all my hopes without encountering great resistance,” said Ibarra.
“Yes, if the priests lend you their hand; no, if they draw it away. All your efforts will be battered to pieces against the walls of the curate’s house. The alcalde will deny to you to-morrow what he has granted you to-day. Not a mother will let her son attend the school, and then all your efforts will have just an opposite effect to that intended. You will discourage all others who might wish to attempt beneficent undertakings.”
“Nevertheless,” replied Ibarra, “I cannot believe in this power of which you speak. And even supposing it to be true, admitting that it is as you say, would I not still have on my side the sensible people and the Government?”
“The Government! The Government!” exclaimed the philosopher, raising his eyes and looking at the ceiling. “However much the Government may desire to uplift the country for its own benefit and that of the mother country; however generous may be the Catholic Kings in spirit, I must remind you in confidence that there is another power which does not allow the Government to see, hear, or judge except what the curates or provincial priests wish. The Government is afraid of the advancement of the people, and the people are afraid of the forces of the Government. So long as the Government does not understand the people of the country, the country will never get out from this guardianship. The people will live like weak, young children who tremble at the sound of the voice of their tutor, whose mercy they beg. The Government has no dreams of a great future, a healthy development of the country. The people do not complain, because they have no voice. They do not move, because they are too carefully watched. You say that they do not suffer, because you have not seen what would make your heart bleed. But some day you will see it! alas! some day you will hear it. When the light of day is thrown on their monstrous forms, you will see a frightful reaction. That great force, held back for centuries, that poison, distilled drop by drop, those sighs, so long repressed—all will come to light and will some day burst forth.... Who will then pay the accounts which the people will present and which History preserves for us on its bloody pages?”
“God, the Government, and the Church will never allow that day to come!” replied Crisostomo, impressed in spite of himself. “The Filipinos are religious and they love Spain. The Filipinos will always know how much this nation has done for them. There are abuses; yes! There are defects; I do not deny it. But Spain is working to introduce reforms which will correct them; she is devising plans; she is not selfish. Can it be that my love for my native land is incompatible with love for Spain? Is it necessary to lower one’s self to be a good Christian, to prostitute one’s own conscience to bring about good? I love my fatherland, the Philippines, because I owe to her my life and my happiness—because every man should love his native land. I love Spain, the fatherland of my ancestors, because, in spite of all that may be said, the Philippines owe to Spain, and always will owe to her, their happiness and their future. I am a Catholic. I hold dear the belief of my fathers, and I do not see why I have to bow my head when I am able to raise it; nor why I have to entrust it to my enemies, when I can trample on them.”
“Because the field in which you are sowing your seed is in the hands of your enemies, and you are weak in comparison to them.... It is necessary that you first kiss the hand——”
But the young man did not allow him to go farther and exclaimed violently: “To kiss their hands! You forget that, between them, they killed my father; they threw his body out of its sepulchre: but I, I who am his son, I do not forget it, and, if I do not avenge myself, it is because I consider the prestige of the Church.”
The old philosopher bowed his head. “Señor Ibarra,” he replied slowly, “if you keep those memories—memories which I cannot advise you to forget—if you keep those memories, give up your plans and your undertaking and try to work good for your countrymen in another way. The undertaking needs another man than you for its execution, because to carry it out will not only require money and care, but, in our country, self-denial, tenacity and faith are also needed. The land is not ready for it; it has been sown only with darnel.”
Ibarra understood the weight of these words, but he was not going to be discouraged. Thoughts of Maria Clara filled his mind; he must fulfill his promise to her.
“Does not your experience suggest something other than this hard method?” he asked in a low voice.
The old man took him by the arm and led him to the window. A cool breeze was blowing from the north. Before his eyes lay the garden, stretching out to the large forest which served as a park.
“Why do we not have to do the same as that weak young bush loaded with roses and buds?” said the philosopher pointing to a beautiful rose bush. “The wind blows, shakes it and it bends itself down as if trying to hide its precious load. If the bush kept itself erect, it would be broken off, the wind would scatter its flowers and the buds would be blighted. The wind passes over, and the bush straightens itself up again, proud of its treasure. Thus it would be with you, a plant transplanted from Europe to this stony ground, if you did not look about for some support and belittle yourself. Alone and lofty, you are in bad condition.”
“And would this sacrifice bring the fruits that I hope for?” asked Ibarra. “Would the priest have faith in me and would he forget the offense? Would his kind not be able to feign friendship, to make a false show of protecting me, and then, from behind in the darkness, fight me, harass me and wound my heels, thus making me waver more quickly than they could by attacking me face to face? Given these premises, what do you think could be expected?”
The old man remained silent for some time, not being able to reply. At last he said: “If such a thing took place, if the undertaking failed, I would console you with the thought that you had done all that was in your power. And even so, something would be gained. Lay the first stone, sow the first seed and after the tempest has passed over, some little grain perhaps would germinate.”
“I believe you,” exclaimed Ibarra, stretching out his hand. “Not in vain did I look for good advice. This very day I shall go and make friends with the curate.”
Taking leave of the old man, he mounted on his horse and rode away.
“Attention!” murmured the pessimistic philosopher to himself, as he followed the young man with his eyes. “Let us observe carefully how Destiny will unfold the tragedy which began in the cemetery.”
But this time the philosopher was truly mistaken. The tragedy had begun long before.