It is the tenth of November, the eve of the fiesta to be celebrated in the town of San Diego. Departing from its habitual monotony, the town is displaying extraordinary activity in the church, houses, streets, cock-pit, and the fields. Windows are draped with flags and many-colored decorations. Music and the sound of exploding fireworks fill the air. Everywhere there is rejoicing.
In the streets at fixed intervals, beautiful arches of bamboo are raised, the wood carved and worked in a thousand different ways. The arches are surrounded with ornaments, the very sight of which brings joy to the heart of the small boy. In the church yard, a large and costly awning has been erected. It is propped up by bamboo poles and so arranged that the procession may pass under it. Under its shade the children play, run, jump, fall and otherwise manage to tear and soil their new shirts, which have been intended for the day of the festival.
In the public square a platform has been built of bamboo, nipa and boards, to serve as the stage. It is here that the comedy company from Tondo will tell wonderful tales, and will compete with the gods in the performance of miracles. Here Marianito, Chananay, Balbino, Ratia, Carvajal, Yeyeng, Liceria and the others will sing and dance. The Filipino loves the theatre, and always attends dramatic productions with a great deal of pleasure. The gobernadorcillo was very fond of the theatre, and, with the advice of the curate, he had selected for the fiesta the fantastic comedy: “Prince Villardo, or the Nails Pulled Out of the Infamous Cave,” a play full of magic and fireworks.
From time to time the bells ring out their merry sounds. Firecrackers and the booming of little cannon rend the air. The Filipino pyrotechnist, who has learned his art without a teacher of any renown, displays his skill, setting up pieces representing towers, castles, and the like. Already the small boys are running at break-neck speed toward the outskirts of the town to meet the bands of music. Five organizations have been hired, besides three orchestras.
A band enters the town playing lively marches, and is followed by a lot of ragged and half naked pickaninnies: this one, perhaps, has on his brother’s shirt; that one, his father’s trousers. As soon as the music stops, these little tots know by memory the piece that has been played; they whistle and hum it with great delight, showing at this early age their musical talent.
In the meantime wagons and carriages arrive, bringing relatives, friends, and strangers. Gamblers are also on hand with their best fighting cocks and bags of money, ready to risk their fortunes on the green cloth or in the cock-pit.
“The alferez gets fifty dollars a night,” murmured a little, chubby man when he heard of the recent arrivals, for there were already many rumors that these people bribed the officer so that they might not be interfered with by the law. “Captain Tiago,” he added, “is going to come and will be banker in the monte game. Captain Joaquin brings eighteen thousand. There is going to be a liam-po,1 and the Chino Carlos is going to back it with ten thousand pesos capital. Big bettors will come from Tanauan, Lipa, and Batangas, as well as from Santa Cruz. It’s going to be great! It’s going to be great! This year Captain Tiago will not skin us as he has in the past, for he has not paid for more than three masses this year, and besides, I have a mutya2 of cacao. And how are all the family?”
“Very well, very well, thank you!” replied the visitors from the country.
But the place where the greatest animation reigns, where there is almost a tumult, is over there on the level piece of ground, a short distance from Ibarra’s house. Pulleys creak, and the place resounds with the sound of the hammer, the chiseling of stones, hewing of beams and the shouting of voices. A gang of workmen is making an excavation which will be wide and deep; others are busy piling up quarry stone, unloading carts, sifting sand, putting a capstan in place and so on.
“Put that here! That, there! Come, be lively about it!” shouts a little, old man with an animated and intelligent physiognomy as he goes about, a yard stick and plumb line in hand. He is the director of the work, Ñor Juan, architect, mason, carpenter, whitewasher, locksmith, painter, stone cutter, and, on occasion, sculptor.
“We must finish it immediately! To-morrow nothing can be done, and day after to-morrow the ceremony of laying the corner stone is to take place! Come, be lively!”
“Make the hole just large enough for this cylinder!” said he to one of the stone cutters who was chiseling off a large quadrangular stone. “Inside of this our names will be kept.”
Then he would repeat to every countryman who came along what he had already said a thousand times: “Do you know what we are going to build? Well, it is a school house, a model of its kind, something like those in Germany, but still better. The architect, Señor R., draughted the plans and I, I am in charge of the work. Yes, sir, you see this is going to be a regular palace with two wings, one for the boys and one for the girls. Here in the middle is to be a large garden with three fountains. There, on the sides, groves, where the children can sow and cultivate plants during the hours of recreation, thus improving the time. Just see how deep the foundations are to be: three meters and seventy-five centimeters. The building is going to have a cellar where the indolent pupils will be confined. This will be very close to the playing ground and the gymnasium, so that those who are punished may hear the diligent pupils enjoying themselves. Do you see this large space? Well, this will be a place for them to run and jump. The girls will have a separate garden with benches, swings, a special place for jumping the rope and rolling hoops, fountains and a bird-house. This is going to be magnificent!”
He kept going from one end to the other, inspecting everything and passing his opinion on all.
“I find that you have got too much lumber here for a crane,” said he to a yellowish-looking fellow, who was directing some other laborers. “I would have enough, with three large beams, to form the tripod and with three others to serve as supporters.”
“O, pshaw!” replied the other, smiling in a peculiar way. “The more apparatus we give ourselves, the greater effect we will produce. The massiveness of it will make a bigger show and give it more importance. They will say: ‘What a lot of work has been done!’ You look at that crane that I am constructing. In a little while, I am going to ornament it with banderolas, garlands of flowers and leaves, and ... you will say afterward that you were right in hiring me, and Señor Ibarra cannot wish for more than that!”
The man laughed. Ñor Juan also smiled and shook his head.
As a matter of fact, the plan for the school had been approved by everybody and all were talking about it. The curate had asked to be allowed to be one of the patrons of the enterprise and he himself was to bless the laying of the corner stone, a ceremony which would take place on the last day of the San Diego festival, as it was considered one of the great solemnities.
The dismal presentiments of the old Tasio seemed to have been dissipated forever. One day Ibarra told the old man so, but the old pessimist only replied: “Things may go well at first, but be on your guard against masked enemies.”
Great preparations had also been made in the house of Captain Tiago. We are already acquainted with the man. His love for pomp and his pride in being a resident of Manila made it necessary that he should outdo the residents of the province in the splendor of his celebration. There was another thing, too, which made it necessary that he should try to eclipse all others—the fact that his daughter Maria Clara and his future son-in-law were also there. His prospective connection with Ibarra caused the Captain to be often spoken of among the people.
Yes, as a matter of fact, one of the most serious newspapers in Manila had printed an article on its first page, headed “Imitate Him!” in which they offered Ibarra much advice and highly eulogized him. The article spoke of him as “the illustrious and rich young capitalist.” Two lines below, he was termed “the distinguished philanthropist,” and, in the following paragraph, referred to as the “disciple of Minerva who went to his Mother Country to salute the real birthplace of arts and sciences.” Captain Tiago was burning with generous emulation and was wondering whether he ought not to erect a convent at his own expense.
Days before the week of festivities, numerous boxes of provisions and drinks, colossal mirrors, pictures, paintings and his daughter’s piano had arrived at the house. Maria Clara and Aunt Isabel were already living there. Captain Tiago came on the day before the beginning of the festival. As he kissed his daughter’s hand, he made her a present of a beautiful religious relic. It was solid gold, and set with diamonds and emeralds, and contained a little sliver from Saint Peter’s boat, in which Our Saviour sat while fishing.
The Captain’s interview with his future son-in-law could not have been more cordial. Naturally, the school house was the subject of conversation. Captain Tiago wanted him to call the school “The San Francisco School.”
“Believe me!” he said. “San Francisco is a good patron saint. If you call it ‘The Primary School,’ you gain nothing. Who is Primary, anyway?”
Some friends of Maria Clara arrived and invited her to go for a walk.
“But return quickly,” said the Captain to his daughter, who asked for his permission. “You know that Father Dámaso is going to dine with us to-night. He has just arrived.”
And turning to Ibarra who was deep in thought, he added: “You will dine with us, too? You will be all alone at home.”
“With the greatest pleasure, I assure you, if I did not have to be at home to-night to receive visitors,” replied the young man, mumbling his words and evading Maria Clara’s glance.
“Bring your friends along with you,” replied Captain Tiago cheerfully. “In my house there is always enough to eat. And, besides I would like to have you and Father Dámaso understand each other.”
“There’ll be time enough for that,” replied Ibarra, putting on a forced smile and making ready to accompany the young ladies.
They went downstairs. Maria Clara was walking between Victoria and Iday, while Aunt Isabel followed behind.
As they passed down the street, people stood aside respectfully and gave them the inside of the way. Maria Clara was surprisingly beautiful now. Her paleness had disappeared, and although her eyes were thoughtful, her mouth, on the contrary, seemed all smiles. With that amiability known only to a happy maiden, she saluted friends she had known from childhood who to-day were admirers of her youthful beauty. In less than fifteen days she had regained that frank confidence, that childish chatter, which seemed for awhile to have been left behind in the narrow walls of the convent. It seemed as though the butterfly upon leaving its shell knew all the flowers at once. It was enough that she be given a moment of flight and an opportunity to warm herself in the golden rays of the sun, in order to throw off the rigidity of the chrysalis. New life shone out in every part of her young being. Everything she met with was good and beautiful. Her love was manifested with virginal grace, and innocent in thought, she saw nothing to cause her to put on false blushes. However, she was wont to cover her face with her fan when they joked with her, but her eyes would smile and a gentle tremor would pass over her whole being.
In front of Captain Basilio’s house were some young men who saluted our acquaintances and invited them into the house. The merry voice of Sinang was heard, as she descended the stairs on a run and at once put an end to all excuses.
“Come up a moment so that I can go out with you,” said she. “It bores me to be among so many strangers who talk about nothing but fighting-cocks and playing cards.”
They went upstairs. The house was full of people. Some advanced to greet Ibarra, whose name was known to all. They contemplated with ecstacy Maria Clara’s beauty, and some of the matrons murmured as they chewed their betel-nut: “She looks like the Virgin!”
After they had partaken of chocolate they resumed their walk. In the corner of the plaza a beggar was singing the romance of the fishes, to the accompaniment of a guitar. He was a common sight, a man miserably dressed and wearing a wide-brimmed hat made out of palm leaves. His clothing consisted of a frock coat covered with patches, and a pair of wide trousers such as the Chinese wear, but torn in many places. From beneath the brim of his hat two fiery orbs flashed out a ray of light. He was tall and from his manner seemed to be young. He put a basket down on the ground and, afterwards walking away from it a little distance, he uttered strange, unintelligible sounds. He remained standing, completely isolated, as if he and the people in the street were trying to avoid each other. Women approached his basket, and dropped into it fish, fruit and rice. When there was no one else to approach the basket, other sadder but less mournful sounds could be heard; perhaps he was thanking them. He picked up his basket and walked away to do the same in another place.
Maria Clara felt that this was a pitiful case. Full of interest, she asked about the strange being.
“It is a leper,” replied Iday. “He contracted the disease some four years ago; some say by taking care of his mother, others by having been confined in a damp prison. He lives there in the field near the Chinese cemetery. He does not communicate with any one: everybody flees from him on account of the fear of contagion. You should see his fantastic little house! The wind, the rain and the sunshine go in and out of it as a needle goes through cloth. They have prohibited him from touching anything belonging to anybody. One day a little child fell into the canal. The canal was deep, but this man happened to be passing near and helped to get the little child out. The child’s father learned of it, made a complaint to the gobernadorcillo and the latter ordered that he be given six stripes in the middle of the street, the whip to be afterwards burned. That was atrocious! The leper ran away howling; they pursued him and the gobernadorcillo cried out: ‘Catch him! One might better be drowned than have that disease!’”
“That is true,” murmured Maria Clara. And then, without noticing what she was doing, she went up to the basket of the unfortunate wretch and dropped into it the relic which her father had just presented to her.
“What have you done?” her friends asked her.
“I have nothing else to give him,” she replied, concealing the tears in her eyes by a smile.
“And what is he going to do with the relic?” said Victoria to her. “One day they gave him money but he pushed it away from him with his cane. Why would he care for it, if no one would accept anything coming from him? If he could only eat the relic!”
Maria Clara looked longingly at the women who were selling provisions and shrugged her shoulders.
But the leper approached the basket, picked up the piece of jewelry which shone in his hands, knelt down, kissed it, and, after taking off his hat, buried his face in the dust on which the young girl had walked.
Maria Clara hid her face behind her fan and raised her handkerchief to her eyes.
While two of the actors were singing the Incarnatus est in the church at the celebration of mass on the last day of the fiesta, and all were kneeling and the priests were bowing their heads, a man whispered in Ibarra’s ear: “During the ceremony of the blessing of the corner stone, do not go near the priest, do not go in the ditch, do not approach the corner stone. Your life will depend on it.”
Ibarra looked and saw that it was Elias, the pilot, but, as soon as he had spoken, he lost himself in the crowd.
The yellow-skinned man kept his word. It was not a simple lifting crane which he had built over the ditch for the purpose of lowering the enormous block of granite. It was not the mere tripod which Ñor Juan had wanted for holding a tackle-block. It was something more. It was at the same time a machine and an ornament, grand and imposing.
The confusing and complicated scaffolding had been raised to a height of more than eight meters. Four heavy timbers buried in the ground and supporting each other with colossal, diagonal braces, served as the base. The braces were joined to each other by immense nails, about half driven into the wood, perhaps because the apparatus was only of a provisional nature, and it could then be more easily taken down. Enormous cables were hanging from all sides, giving the entire apparatus an aspect of solidity and grandeur. The top was gay with flags and banners of various colors, floating pennants, and massive garlands of flowers and leaves, all artistically interwoven.
On high, in the shade of the projecting timbers, banners and wreaths, a large three-wheeled tackle-block was suspended by ropes and iron hooks. Over the shining rims of these pulleys great cables passed, holding suspended in the air a massive stone. The center of this stone had been chiseled out so that when lowered upon the hollowed stone, which had already been placed in the ditch, a small enclosure would be formed between the two. This space was to contain an account of the ceremonies, newspapers, manuscripts and coins, to be transmitted, perhaps, to other generations, in the far distant future. From this tackle-block at the top of the structure, the cable passed down to another smaller pulley which was fastened at the base of the apparatus. Through this pulley, the cable passed to the cylinder of a windlass which was held to the ground by massive beams. This windlass which can be operated by only two hands, multiplies man’s strength by means of a series of cog-wheels. Although there is a gain in force, there is of course a loss in velocity.
“Look!” said the yellow-skinned man, as he gave the crank a turn. “Look, Ñor Juan, with my strength alone, I can raise and lower that massive block of stone. This is so nicely arranged that I can control the ascent or descent of the stone by inches. Thus one man below can arrange the two stones in place, while I manipulate the apparatus from here.”
Ñor Juan could but admire the man as he smiled in such a peculiar manner. The curious people standing about made comments and praised the yellow-skinned man for his work.
“Who taught you the mechanism?” asked Ñor Juan.
“My father, my father who is now dead,” he replied, with that same peculiar smile.
“And who taught your father?”
“Don Saturnino, the grandfather of Don Crisostomo.”
“I did not know that Don Saturnino——”
“Oh, he knew a good many things. Not only did he know how to whip well and how to expose his workmen to the rays of the sun, but he knew also how to awaken the sleeping and how to make those awake sleep. In time, you will see what my father has taught me, you will see!”
And the yellow fellow smiled in a strange manner.
At two eating stands, there was now being prepared a sumptuous and abundant breakfast. However, on the table designated for the little ones of the school, there was no wine, but instead a larger amount of fruit. In a covered passage which joined the two stands, there were seats for the musicians and a table covered with sweetmeats, candies and flasks of water, ornamented with leaves and flowers, for the thirsty public.
The crowd, resplendent in gay-colored clothes, was already fleeing from the hot rays of the sun and gathering under the shade of the trees or of the covering. The small boys climbed the trees near the place, in order to get a better view of the ceremony, and looked with envy upon the school children, who, clean and well dressed, were occupying a place designated for them. The fathers of the school children were enthusiastic. They, poor countrymen that they were, would have the pleasure of seeing their children eat on a white table cloth, just like the curate and the Alcalde. Merely to think of it was enough to drive away their hunger.
Soon strains of music were heard in the distance. A promiscuous crowd of persons of all ages and dress was preceding the band. The yellow-looking man was uneasy and was examining the whole apparatus. A curious countryman was also following his glances and was observing every movement he made. This countryman was Elias, who had also come to attend the ceremony. His hat and his style of dress almost concealed his identity. He had secured the best possible place for himself, right up close to the crane, on the edge of the excavation.
With the band of music came the Alcalde, the officials of the town, the friars, with the exception of Father Dámaso, and the Spanish employees of the Government. Ibarra was conversing with the Alcalde, for they had become quite friendly from the time the young man paid him some high compliments on his insignia, decorations and cordon. Pride in belonging to an aristocratic family was a weakness of His Excellency. Captain Tiago, the alferez and several wealthy persons, with their shining silk hats, walked along, surrounded by a group of youngsters. Father Salví followed, the same as ever, silent and pensive.
The young man could feel his heart beat as they approached the designated place. Instinctively, he glanced at the strange-looking scaffolding which had been raised there. He saw, too, the yellow-looking man who saluted him with respect, and, for a moment, Ibarra fixed his eyes on him. To his surprise, Ibarra also discovered Elias on the edge of the excavation. He gave the young pilot a significant look, letting him understand that he remembered what he had said in the church.
The curate put on his sacerdotal vestments and began the ceremony. The one-eyed sacristan mayor held the book and a choir boy was charged with the water-sprinkler and the vessel of blessed water. The others who stood around about, their heads uncovered, maintained a deep silence. In spite of the fact that Father Salví read in a low tone, it could be noticed that his voice trembled.
In the meantime the articles, such as manuscripts, newspapers, medals and coins, which were to be placed in the corner stone had been enclosed in a little glass box, and hermetically sealed in a leaden cylinder.
“Señor Ibarra, do you wish to put the box in its place? The curate awaits it,” said the Alcalde to Ibarra.
“I would do so with much pleasure,” replied he, “but I would be usurping the honorable duty of the Señor Notary. The Notary ought to attest the act.”
The Notary took it seriously, descended the carpeted stairs to the bottom of the excavation and, with fitting solemnity, deposited the box in the hollow which had been made in the stone. The curate then took up the sprinkler and sprinkled the stones with holy water.
The time had now come for each one to put his trowelful of mortar on the surface of the stone, which lay in the ditch, so that the other stone might fit upon it and be made to adhere to it.
Ibarra presented the Alcalde with a trowel, upon whose wide silver blade was engraved the date. But His Excellency first delivered an address in Spanish.
“Citizens of San Diego,” he said in a solemn tone. “I have the honor to preside at a ceremony the importance of which you already understand. A school is being founded. The school is the base of society. The school is the book in which is written the future of the people. Show me the schools of a people and I will tell you what those people are.
“Citizens of San Diego! Thank God that he has given you virtuous priests; and the Mother Country that she untiringly diffuses her civilization over these fertile islands, protected by her glorious flag. Thank God that she has had pity for you, bringing you these humble priests that they may enlighten you and teach you the divine word. Thank the Government for the great sacrifices it has made, makes now and will make in the future for you and your sons.
“And now that the first stone of this great edifice has been blessed, I, Alcalde Mayor of this province, in the name of His Majesty, the King, whom God guard, King of the Spains, in the name of the illustrious Spanish Government, and under its spotless and ever victorious banner, I consecrate this act and begin the building of this school.
“Citizens of San Diego! Long live the King! Long live Spain! Long live the Church! Long live the priests! Long live the Catholic religion!”
“Viva! Viva!” replied the others. “Long live the Alcalde!”
The Alcalde majestically descended to the accompaniment of the music which had begun to play. He placed some trowels of mortar on the stone and with equal majesty ascended the stairs.
The Government employees applauded.
Ibarra offered another silver trowel to the curate, who, after fixing his eyes on him for a moment, descended slowly to the bottom of the excavation. When about half way down the stairs, he raised his eyes to look at the stone which hung suspended in the air by the powerful cables, but he only looked at it for a second and then descended. He did the same as the Alcalde had done, but this time more applause was heard, for the Government employees were assisted by the other friars and Captain Tiago.
Father Salví seemed to be searching for some one to whom to hand the trowel. He looked with hesitation toward Maria Clara, but, changing his mind, he offered it to the Notary. The latter, for the sake of gallantry, approached Maria Clara, who declined it with a smile. The friars, the Government employees and the alferez, one after another went down and repeated the ceremony. Captain Tiago was not forgotten.
Ibarra had been omitted. He was about to order the yellow man to lower the other stone, when the curate remembered him. In a pleasant tone and, with an affectation of familiarity, he said to him. “Aren’t you going to put on your trowelful, Señor Ibarra?”
“I would be like the fellow who made the stew and then ate it,” replied the young man in the same tone.
“O, go on!” said the Alcalde, giving him a gentle push. “If you don’t, I will order them not to lower the stone and then we will have to wait here till Judgment Day.”
So terrible a threat forced Ibarra to obey. He exchanged the small silver trowel for a larger iron one, which made some of the people smile. He advanced quietly and descended the stairs. Elias looked at him with an indescribable expression. If you had seen him, you would have thought that all his life was concentrated in his eyes. The yellow man looked down into the abyss opening at his feet.
Ibarra, after glancing at the stone which hung over his head, and then at Elias and the yellow man, said to Ñor Juan in a trembling voice: “Give me the bucket of mortar and find another trowel for me above.”
The young man stood alone. Elias was no longer looking at him; his eyes instead were riveted on the yellow man’s hand, while the latter leaned over the ditch and followed with anxiety the movements of Ibarra.
The noise of the trowel removing a mass of sand and lime was heard, accompanied by the low murmur of the employees who were congratulating the Alcalde on his address.
Suddenly there was a frightful creaking. The pulley which was tied to the base of the crane jumped and then the windlass struck the apparatus like a battering-ram. The timbers swayed, ropes flew into the air and, in a second, all came down with a terrible crash. A cloud of dust was raised, and a thousand cries filled the air. Nearly all fled; a few hurried to the ditch. Only Maria Clara and Father Salví remained in their places without moving, both pale and silent.
When the cloud of dust had partially cleared away, Ibarra could be seen standing among a mass of beams, bamboos, and cables, between the windlass and the massive stone, which in its descent had shaken and crushed everything. The young man was still holding the trowel in his hand, his eyes staring with fright at the dead body of a man which was lying at his feet, half buried under the timbers.
“Are you hurt?—Are you still alive? For God’s sake speak!” said some of the employees, full of terror.
“Miracle! a miracle!” cried some.
“Come and remove the body of this unfortunate man,” said Ibarra, as if awakening from a dream.
On hearing his voice, Maria Clara felt her strength giving way and she fell, half fainting, into the arms of her friends.
Great confusion reigned. Everybody was talking, gesticulating, and running from one side to the other, up and down the stairs, all stupefied and full of consternation.
“Who is the dead man? Is he still alive?” asked the alferez.
The body was identified as the yellow workman who had been standing beside the windlass.
“Let proceedings be brought against the superintendent of the work,” was the first thing that the Alcalde said.
They examined the body, felt of the heart, but it was no longer beating. The blow had fallen on the head and blood was oozing from the nose, ears and mouth. Some strange marks were seen on the man’s neck. There were four deep dents on one side and a single but deeper one on the other. It looked as though an iron hand had grasped it like a pair of pinchers.
The priests warmly congratulated the young man and shook his hand.
“When I think that only a few moments ago I was standing there,” said one of the employees. “Say! If I had been the last! Jesús!”
“It makes my hair stand on end,” said another, who was bald.
Ibarra had departed, to ascertain the condition of Maria Clara.
“Let this not prevent the festival from continuing,” said the Alcalde. “God be praised! The dead man is neither a priest nor a Spaniard! Your escape must be celebrated! Just think—if the stone had fallen on you!”
“There is such a thing as a presentiment!” said the Notary. “I said so. Señor Ibarra was reluctant to descend. I saw it!”
“Let the festival go on! Give us some music! Weeping will not bring the dead man to life. Captain, serve warrants right here! Let the clerk of the tribunal come. Arrest the superintendent of the work!”
“Put him in the stocks!”
“Put him in the stocks! Eh? Some music, music! Put the maestrillo in the stocks.”
“Señor Alcalde,” replied Ibarra gravely, “if weeping cannot bring the dead man back to life, neither can anything be gained by putting a man in prison when we do not know that he is culpable. I will give bail for him and ask that he be given liberty for some days at least.”
“Well, well! But such a misfortune must not be repeated!”
All kinds of comments were circulating among the people. The theory that it was a miracle was already accepted. Father Salví, however, seemed to rejoice very little over the miracle, which the people attributed to a saint of his order and of his parish.
There were some who claimed to have seen, as the crane was falling, a figure dressed in black like the Franciscans, go down in the ditch. It was without doubt San Diego himself. It was supposed, too, that Ibarra had heard mass and that the yellow man had not. It was all as clear as the light of the sun.
Ibarra went home to change his clothes.
“Hm! Bad beginning,” said Old Tasio as he left the place.
Ibarra had just finished dressing when a servant announced that a countryman was asking for him. Supposing that it was one of his laborers, the young man ordered that they show him into his study, which also served as a library and a chemical laboratory. But, to his great surprise, he met the muscular figure of the mysterious Elias.
“You recently saved my life,” said he in Tagalog, at once comprehending Ibarra’s movement. “I have paid you only half of the debt, and you are not indebted to me; rather the contrary. I have come to ask a favor of you....”
“Speak out!” replied the young man, in the same language and somewhat surprised at the gravity of the peasant.
For some seconds, Elias looked fixedly into Ibarra’s eyes and then replied: “If human justice should ever wish to clear up this mystery, I beg of you not to speak to any one about the warning that I gave you in the church.”
“Don’t be troubled about that,” replied the young man with a certain note of displeasure in his voice. “I know that they are hunting you, but I am no informer.”
“Oh, it is not for my sake, it is not for me!” exclaimed Elias, not without some pride. “It is for your sake. I have nothing to fear from men.”
Ibarra’s surprise increased. The tone in which the countryman was speaking was new to him and did not seem to be in accord either with his state or his fortune.
“What do you mean?” asked Ibarra, interrogating the mysterious man with his look.
“I do not speak in enigmas; I try to express myself clearly. For your greater security, it is necessary that your enemies think you unsuspecting and off your guard.”
Ibarra stepped back.
“My enemies? Have I enemies?”
“All of us have, sir, all from the lowest insect to man, from the poorest to the richest and most powerful. Enmity is the law of life. You have enemies in the highest and in the lowest ranks. You are planning a great undertaking; you have a past; your father, your grandfather had enemies because they had passion. In life it is not criminals who provoke the most hatred, but rather honorable men.”
Elias did not reply at once, but meditated.
“I knew one, the one who has died,” he replied. “Last night I discovered that something was being plotted against you, through some words that were exchanged between him and an unknown man who lost himself in the crowd. ‘The fish will not eat this one as they did his father; you will see to-morrow,’ said he. These words attracted my attention, not only on account of their meaning but because they were spoken by this man, who only a few days ago had presented himself to the superintendent of the work with the express desire that he be given charge of the work of placing the corner stone. He did not ask for a large wage, but made a great show of his knowledge. I had no sufficient reasons to attribute evil designs to him, but something told me that my suspicions were right. For this reason, in order to warn you, I chose a moment and an occasion when you could not ask me any questions. You already know the rest.”
Elias was then silent for some moments; yet Ibarra did not reply nor utter a word. He was meditating.
“I am sorry that the man is dead,” he replied at last. “We might have been able to learn something more about it from him.”
“If he had lived he would have escaped from the trembling hand of blind, human justice. God has now judged him! God has killed him! Let God be the only judge!”
Crisostomo looked a moment at the man who was speaking to him in this manner. He noticed that his muscular arms were covered with bruises and black and blue spots.
“Do you also believe in the miracle version of the affair?” he said, smiling—“this miracle of which the people speak?”
“If I believed in miracles, I would not believe in God. I would believe in a deified man. In fact, I would believe that man had created God after his image and likeness,” he replied solemnly. “But I believe in Him. More than once I have felt His hand. When all was falling headlong, threatening destruction for everything which was in the place, I Held the criminal. I put myself by his side. He was struck and I am safe and sound.”
“You? So that you...?”
“Yes! I held him when he wanted to escape, once he had begun his fatal work. I saw his crime. I say: ‘Let God be the only judge among men. Let Him be the only one who has the right to take away life. Let man never think of substituting himself for him!’”
“And, still you this time....”
“No!” interrupted Elias, foreseeing the objection that he was going to raise. “It is not the same thing. When a man as judge condemns another to death or destroys his future forever, he does it with impunity and makes use of the force of other men to carry out his sentence. Yet, after all, the sentence may be wrong and unjust. But I, in exposing the criminal to the same danger which he had prepared for others, ran the same risks. I did not kill him. I allowed the hand of God to kill him.”
“Do you not believe in chance?”
“To believe in chance is like believing in miracles. Both theories suppose that God does not know the future. What is a casualty? A happening which absolutely nobody knows beforehand. What is a miracle? A contradiction, a contortion of the laws of nature. Lack of foresight and contradiction in the All Knowing, who directs the machinery of the world, are two great imperfections.”
“Who are you?” Ibarra asked again, with a certain dread. “Have you studied?”
“I have had to believe in God a great deal because I have lost my faith in men,” replied the pilot, evading the question.
Ibarra thought that he understood this man; young and proscribed, he disregarded human justice; denied the right of man to judge his equals, he protested against power and superiority of certain classes of men over others.
“But you must admit the necessity of human justice, however imperfect it may be,” he replied. “God, although he has ministers on the earth, cannot, that is to say, cannot clearly give his judgment upon the millions of contentions which are stirred up by our passions. It is necessary, it is just, that a man should sometimes judge his fellows.”
“For good, yes; for bad, no. To correct and improve, yes; but not to destroy, for if he fails in his judgment, there is no power that can remedy the evil that has been done. But,” he added, changing his tone, “this discussion is beyond and above me, and I am keeping you from those who are now awaiting you. But do not forget what I have just said: You have enemies. Take care of yourself for the good of your country!”
There, under the shade of the decorated pavilion, the great men of the province were banqueting. The Alcalde occupied one end of the table; Ibarra, the other. On the young man’s right sat Maria Clara, and on his left, the Notary. Captain Tiago, the alferez, the gobernadorcillo, the friars, the employees, and the few señoritas who were present were seated, not according to rank but according to their own fancy.
The banquet was very animated, but, before it was half over, a messenger with a telegram came in search of Captain Tiago. The Captain asked permission to read the message, and naturally all begged of him to do so.
The worthy Captain at first knit his eyebrows; and then raised them. His face became pale, and then brightened up. Doubling up the sheet of paper hurriedly, he arose.
“Gentlemen,” said he, confused, “His Excellency, the Governor General, is coming this afternoon to honor my house.”
And then he started on a run, taking with him the telegram and the napkin, but not his hat. All sorts of questions and exclamations were shouted after him. The announcement of the coming of the tulisanes could not have had a greater effect. “But listen! When does he come? Tell us about it! His Excellency!” But Captain Tiago was already far away.
“His Excellency is coming and will be a guest at Captain Tiago’s house!” exclaimed some one, without considering that the Captain’s daughter and future son-in-law were present.
“The choice could not have been a better one,” replied another.
The friars looked at each other. Their expressions seemed to say: “The Governor General is committing another of his errors, offending us in this way. He ought to be the guest of the convent.” But despite the fact that they thought this, they all kept silent and no one of them expressed his opinion.
“Even yesterday he was speaking to me about it,” said the Alcalde, “but, at that time, His Excellency was not decided.”
“Do you know, Your Excellency, Señor Alcalde, how long the Governor General intends to remain here?” asked the alferez, a little uneasy.
“No, not positively. His Excellency likes surprises.”
“Here come some other telegrams!”
The messages were for the Alcalde, the alferez, and the gobernadorcillo, and announced the same thing to each of them. The friars noticed that none came addressed to the curate.
“His Excellency will arrive at four o’clock this afternoon, gentlemen,” said the Alcalde solemnly. “We can finish at our leisure.”
Leonidas, in the pass of Thermopylæ, could not have said with better grace “To-night we will dine with Pluto.”
“I notice the absence of our great preacher,” said one of the government employees timidly. The speaker had an inoffensive look and before this had not opened his mouth, except to eat, during the entire morning.
All who knew the life of Crisostomo’s father twitched their eyes significantly and seemed to say by their movements: “Go on! It’s a bad beginning that you have made!” But others, more benevolently disposed, replied: “He must be somewhat fatigued.”
“What? Somewhat fatigued!” exclaimed the alferez. “Why, he must be exhausted. What did you think of the sermon this morning?”
“Superb, gigantic!” said the Notary.
“To be able to speak like Father Dámaso, a man needs lungs,” observed Father Manuel Martin.
The Augustine did not concede more than lung power.
“And such easiness of expression,” added Father Salví.
“Do you know that Señor Ibarra has the best cook in the province,” remarked the Alcalde, cutting off the conversation.
“So they say,” replied one of the Government employees, “but his fair neighbor does not wish to do honor to his table, for she scarcely takes a mouthful.”
Maria Clara blushed.
“I thank you, Senor.... You occupy yourself too much about me ... but ...” she said timidly.
“But your presence honors him sufficiently,” concluded the gallant Alcalde. Then turning to Father Salví: “Father Curate, I notice that you have been silent and pensive all day long.”
“It is my nature,” muttered the Franciscan. “I would rather listen than talk.”
“Your Reverence seeks always to gain and never to lose,” replied the alferez, in a joking manner.
But Father Salví did not take it as a joke. His eyes flashed a moment and he replied: “You know very well, Señor Alferez, that, during these days, I am not the one who gains most!”
The alferez overlooked the fling with a false laugh and pretended not to hear it.
“But, gentlemen, I do not understand how you can be talking about gains and losses,” intervened the Alcalde. “What will these amiable and discreet young women, who honor us with their presence, think of us? To my mind, the young women are like Æolian harps in the night. It is only necessary to lend an attentive ear to hear them, for their unspeakable harmonies elevate the soul to the celestial spheres of the infinite and of the ideal....”
“Your Excellency is a poet,” said the Notary gayly; and both drained their wine glasses.
“I cannot help it,” said the Alcalde, wiping his lips. “The occasion, if it does not always make the thief, makes the poet. In my youth I composed verses, and they certainly were not bad ones.”
“So Your Excellency has been unfaithful to the Muses, deserting them for Themis.”
“Psh!” What would you do? It has always been my dream to run through the whole social scale. Yesterday I was gathering flowers, and singing songs; to-day I hold the wand of Justice and serve Humanity. To-morrow....”
“To-morrow Your Excellency will throw the wand into the fire to warm yourself with it in the winter of life, and will then take a portfolio in the Ministry,” added Father Sibyla.
“Psh! Yes ... no.... To be a Minister is not precisely my ideal. The unexpected always happens, though. A little villa in the north of Spain to pass the summer in, a mansion in Madrid, and some possessions in Andalusia for the winter.... We will live remembering our dear Philippines.... Of me Voltaire will not say: ‘Nous n’avons jamais été chez ces peuples que pour nous y enrichir et pour les calomnier.’”
The Government employees thought that His Excellency intended a joke and they began to laugh to make a show of appreciating it. The friars imitated them since they did not know that Voltaire was the Volta-i-ré whom they had so often cursed and condemned to Hades. Father Sibyla, however, recognized the name and assumed a serious air, supposing that the Alcalde had uttered some heresy.
Father Dámaso was waddling down the road. He was half smiling, but in such a malignant manner, that on seeing him, Ibarra, who was in the act of speaking, lost the thread of his remarks. All were surprised to see Father Dámaso, but, excepting Ibarra, they greeted him with marks of pleasure. They had already reached the last course of the dinner, and the champagne was foaming in the glasses.
Father Dámaso showed a little nervousness in his smile when he saw Maria Clara seated on the right of Crisostomo. But, taking a chair by the side of the Alcalde, he asked in the midst of a significant silence: “Were you not talking about something, señores? Continue!”
“We were drinking a toast,” replied the Alcalde. “Señor Ibarra was mentioning those who had aided him in his philanthropic enterprise and was speaking of the architect when Your Reverence....”
“Well, I don’t understand architecture,” interrupted Father Dámaso, “but architects and the dunces who go to them make me laugh! You have an example right here. I drew the plan for a church and it has been constructed perfectly: so an English jeweler who was one day a guest at the convent told me. To draught a plan, one need have but a small degree of intelligence.”
“However,” replied the Alcalde, seeing that Ibarra was silent, “when we are dealing with certain edifices, for example a school, we need a skilled man (perito).”
“He who needs a perito is a perrito (little dog)!” exclaimed Father Dámaso, with a scoff. “One would have to be more of a brute than the natives, who erect their own houses, if he did not know how to build four walls and put a covering over them. That’s all that a school house is.”
All looked toward Ibarra. But the young man, even if he did look pale, kept on conversing with Maria Clara.
“But Your Reverence should consider....”
“Just look you,” continued the Franciscan without allowing the Alcalde to speak. “See how one of our lay brothers, the most stupid one we have, has built a good hospital, handsome and cheap. It is well built and he did not pay more than eight cuartos a day to those whom he employed even those who came from other towns. That fellow knows how to treat them. He does not do like many fools and mesticillos1 who spoil them by paying them three or four reales.”
“Does Your Reverence say that he only paid eight cuartos? Impossible!” said the Alcalde, trying to change the course of the conversation.
“Yes, Señor; and those who brag of being good Spaniards ought to imitate him. You can see very well now, since the Suez Canal was opened, corruption has come here. Before, when we had to double the Cape, there were not so many worthless people coming out here, nor did Filipinos go abroad to be corrupted and spoiled.”
“But, Father Dámaso!”
“You know very well what the native is. As quickly as he learns anything, he goes and becomes a doctor. All these ignoramuses who go to Europe....”
“But listen, Your Reverence ...” interrupted the Alcalde, becoming uneasy at such harsh words.
“They are all going to end as they merit,” he continued. “The hand of God is upon them and one must be blind not to see it. Even in this life, the fathers of such vipers receive their punishment.... They die in prison, eh?”
But he did not finish his remarks. Ibarra, his face flushing, had been following him with his eyes. On hearing the allusion to his father, he rose and, with a single bound, brought down his strong hand on the head of the priest. Stunned with the blow, the friar fell on his back.
Full of astonishment and terror, no one dared to intervene.
“Keep back!” cried the young man, with a menacing voice, and brandishing a sharp knife in his hand. In the meantime, he held the friar down with his foot on his neck. The latter was recovering consciousness. “Let no one approach who does not want to die!”
Ibarra was beside himself. His body trembled, and his threatening eyes almost burst from their sockets. Friar Dámaso struggled and raised himself, but the young man, seizing him by the collar, shook him till he fell on his knees and collapsed.
“Señor Ibarra! Señor Ibarra!” cried some.
But nobody, not even the alferez, dared to approach the glistening blade, considering the strength of the young man and the state of his mind. All were paralyzed.
“All of you people here have said nothing! Now the matter concerns me! I have avoided him. God now brings him to me. Let God judge!”
The young man was breathing hard. With iron hand he held the Franciscan down, and the latter struggled in vain to break loose.
“My heart beats tranquilly. My hand is sure.”
He looked about him and continued: “Is there among you any one who does not love his father; any one who hates his memory, any one who was born in disgrace and humiliation? See! Do you observe this silence? Priest of a peaceful God, with your mouth full of sanctity and religion, and a miserable heart, you could not have known what a father is. You should have thought of your own! Do you see? Among this crowd which you scorn, there is none such as you! You are judged!”
The people around him made a stir, believing that he was going to strike.
“Back!” he again cried in a threatening voice. “What? Do you fear that I would soil my hand with his impure blood? Have I not told you that my heart beats tranquilly? Back from us, all! Listen, priests, judges, you who think yourselves different from other men, and who claim other rights for yourselves! Listen! My father was an honorable man. Ask these people who venerate his memory. My father was a good citizen. He sacrificed himself for me and for the good of his country! His house was open. His table was ready for the stranger or the exile who came to it in his misery. He was a good Christian; he always did what was right. He never oppressed the helpless, nor brought sorrow to the miserable and wretched. To this man, he opened the door of his house. He had him sit at his table and he called him his friend. What has he done in return? He has calumniated him, persecuted him, has armed ignorance against him, violating the sanctity of his office, has thrown him out of his tomb, dishonored his memory, and persecuted him even in death’s repose. And not content with that, he now persecutes his son. I have fled from him, I have avoided his presence. You heard him this morning profane the pulpit; you saw him point me out to the popular fanaticism; I said nothing. Now he comes here in search of a quarrel. To your surprise, I suffered in silence; but he again insults the sacred memory of my father, that memory which every son holds dear.... You who are here, you priests, you judges, have you seen your father watching over you night and day and working for you? Have you seen him deprive himself of you for your good? Have you seen your father die in prison, heart broken, sighing for some one to caress him, searching for some being to console him, alone in sickness, while you were in a foreign land? Have you heard his name dishonored afterward? Have you found his tomb vacant when you wished to pray upon it? No? You are silent. Then by that silence you condemn him!”
He raised his arm; but a young maiden, quick as a flash, put herself between them and with her delicate hands stopped the arm of the avenger. It was Maria Clara.
Ibarra looked at her with an expression that seemed to reflect madness. Gradually, he loosened the vise-like fingers of his hand, allowed the body of the Franciscan to fall, and dropped his knife upon the ground. Covering his face, he fled through the crowd.
1 Little mestizos or half breeds. Used in contempt.