The house of Captain Tiago was no less disturbed than the imagination of the people. Maria Clara, refusing to listen to the consolation of her aunt and foster sister, did nothing but weep. Her father had forbidden her to speak to Ibarra until the priests should absolve him from the excommunication which they had pronounced upon him.
Captain Tiago, though very busy preparing his house for the reception of the Governor General, had been summoned to the convent.
“Don’t cry, my girl,” said Aunt Isabel as she dusted off the mirrors. “They will certainly annul the excommunication; they will write the Pope.... We will make a large donation.... Father Dámaso had nothing more than a fainting spell.... He is not dead.”
“Don’t cry,” said Andeng to her, in a low voice. “I will certainly arrange it so that you can speak to him. What are the confessionals made for, if we are not expected to sin? Everything is pardoned when one has told it to the curate.”
Finally, Captain Tiago arrived. They scanned his face for an answer to their many questions, but his expression announced too plainly his dismay. The poor man was sweating, and passing his hand over his forehead. He seemed unable to utter a word.
“How is it, Santiago?” asked Aunt Isabel, anxiously.
He answered her with a sigh and dried away a tear.
“For God’s sake, speak! What has happened?”
“What I had already feared!” he broke out finally half crying. “All is lost! Father Dámaso orders that the engagement be broken. If it is not broken off, I am condemned in this life and in the next. They all tell me the same thing, even Father Sibyla! I ought to shut the doors of my house and ... I owe him more than fifty thousand pesos. I told the Fathers so, but they would take no notice of it. ‘Which do you prefer to lose,’ they said to me, ‘fifty thousand pesos, or your life and your soul?’ Alas! Ay! San Antonio! If I had known it, if I had known it!”
Maria Clara was sobbing.
“Do not cry, my daughter,” he added, turning to her. “You are not like your mother. She never cried ... she never cried except when she was whimsical just before your birth.... Father Dámaso tells me that a relative of his has just arrived from Spain ... and that he wants him to be your fiancé.”...
Maria Clara stopped up her ears.
“But, Santiago, are you out of your head?” cried Aunt Isabel. “Speak to her now of another fiancé! Do you think that your daughter can change lovers as easily as she changes her dress?”
“I was thinking the same thing, Isabel. Don Crisostomo is rich.... The Spaniards only marry for love of money.... But what would you have me do? They have threatened me with excommunication. They say that I am in great peril: not only my soul, but also my body ... my body, do you hear? My body!”
“But you only give sorrow to your daughter. Are you not a friend of the Archbishop? Why don’t you write him?”
“The Archbishop is also a friar. The Archbishop does only what the friars say. But, Maria, do not cry. The Governor General will come. He will want to see you and your eyes are all inflamed.... Alas! I was thinking what a happy afternoon I was going to pass.... Without this misfortune, I would be the happiest of men and all would envy me.... Calm yourself, my girl. I am more unfortunate than you and I do not cry. You can have another and better fiancé, but I lose fifty thousand pesos. Ah! Virgin of Antipolo! If I could only have some luck to-night!”
Noises, detonations, the rumbling of carriages, the galloping of horses, and a band playing the Marcha Real announced the arrival of His Excellency, the Governor General of the Philippine Islands. Maria Clara ran to hide in her bedroom.... Poor girl! Gross hands were playing with her heart, ignorant of the delicacy of its fibers.
In the meantime, the house filled with people. Loud steps, commands, and the clanking of sabers and swords resounded on all sides. The afflicted maiden was half kneeling before an engraving of the Virgin, a picture representing her in that attitude of painful solitude, known only to Delaroche, as if she had been surprised on returning from the sepulchre of her Son. But Maria Clara was not thinking of the grief of that Mother; she was thinking of her own. With her head resting on her breast and her hands on the floor, she looked like a lily bent by the storm. A future, cherished for years in her dreams; a future whose illusions, born in her infancy and nursed through her youth, gave form to the cells of her being—that future was now to be blotted from the mind and heart by a single word!
Maria Clara was as good and as pious a Christian as her aunt. The thought of an excommunication terrified her. The threat to destroy the peace of her father demanded that she sacrifice her love. She felt the entire strength of that affection which until now she had not known. It was like a river which glides along smoothly; its banks carpeted with fragrant flowers, its bed formed by fine sand, the wind scarcely rippling its surface, so quiet and peaceful that you would say that its waters were dead; until suddenly its channel is pent up, ragged rocks obstruct its course, and the entangled trunks of trees form a dike. Then the river roars; it rises up; its waves boil; it is lashed into foam, beats against the rocks and rushes into the abyss.
She wanted to pray, but who can pray without hope? One prays when there is hope. When there is none, we surrender ourselves to God and wail. “My God!” cried her heart, “why shouldst thou separate me thus from him I love? Why deny me the love of others? Thou dost not deny me the sun, nor the air, nor dost thou hide the heavens from my sight. Why dost thou deny me love, when it is possible to live without sun, without air, and without the heavens, but without love, never?”
“Mother, mother,” she was moaning.
Aunt Isabel came to take her from her grief. Some of her girl friends had arrived and the Governor General also desired to talk with her.
“Aunt, tell them that I am ill!” begged the frightened maiden. “They wish to make me play the piano and sing.”
“Your father has promised it. You are not going to go back on your father?”
Maria Clara arose, looked at her aunt, clasped her beautiful arms about her and murmured: “Oh, if I had ...”
But, without finishing the sentence, she dried her tears and began to make her toilet.
“I want to speak with that young man,” said His Excellency to an adjutant. “He has awakened my interest.”
“They have already gone to look for him, General! But there is a young man here from Manila who insists on being introduced. We have told him that Your Excellency has no time and that you have not come to give audiences, but to see the town and the procession. But he has replied that Your Excellency always has time to dispense justice.”
His Excellency turned to the Alcalde as if in doubt.
“If I am not mistaken,” said the latter, making a slight bow, “it is a young man who this morning had a difficulty with Father Dámaso about the sermon.”
“Still another? Has this friar undertaken to disturb the province, or does he think that he is in command here? Tell the young man to come in!”
His Excellency was walking nervously from one end of the sala to the other.
In the lower part of the house, in the ante-room, were several Spaniards, mingled with army officers and officials of the town of San Diego and some of the neighboring villages. They were grouped in little circles and were conversing about one thing and another. All of the friars were there except Father Dámaso, and they wanted to go in and pay their respects to His Excellency.
“His Excellency, the Governor General, begs Your Reverences to wait a moment,” said the adjutant. “Walk in, young man!”
The young man from Manila entered the sala, pale and trembling.
Everybody was surprised. His Excellency must be irritated to dare to make the friars wait. Father Sibyla said: “I have nothing to say to him.... I am losing time here!”
“It’s the same with me,” said an Augustine. “Shall we go?”
“Would it not be better for us to find out what he thinks?” asked Father Salví. “We would avoid a scandal ... and ... we would be able to call to his mind his duty to ... the Church.”
“Your Reverences can walk in, if you wish,” announced the adjutant, as he escorted out the young man, whose face was now, however, glowing with satisfaction.
Friar Sibyla entered first. Behind him came Father Salví, Father Manuel Martin and the other priests. They all humbly saluted the Governor General, with the exception of Father Sibyla, who preserved even in his bow, an air of superiority. Father Salví, on the contrary, almost touched the floor with his head.
“Which of Your Reverences is Father Dámaso?” asked His Excellency unexpectedly, without having them sit down, or even asking about their health, and without addressing them with any of those courteous phrases which are customary with such high personages.
“Father Dámaso is not among us, señor,” replied Father Sibyla, rather dryly.
“Your Excellency’s servant lies ill in bed,” added Father Salví meekly. “After having the pleasure of saluting you and of inquiring about the health of Your Excellency, as befits all the good servants of the King and all persons of good education, we also come in the name of the respectful servant of Your Excellency who has the misfortune....”
“Oh,” interrupted the Governor General, as he turned a chair around on one leg and smiled nervously. “If all the servants of My Excellency were like His Reverence Father Dámaso, I would prefer to serve My Excellency myself.”
The Reverences did not know how to respond to this interruption.
“Take a seat, Your Reverences!” he added after a short pause, softening his tone a little.
Captain Tiago came in dressed in a frock coat and walking on tip-toes. He was leading Maria Clara by the hand. The young maiden was trembling when she entered, but notwithstanding she made a graceful and ceremonious bow.
“Is this your daughter?” asked the Governor General, somewhat surprised.
“And Your Excellency’s, my General,” replied Captain Tiago seriously.1
The Alcalde and the adjutants opened wide their eyes, but His Excellency did not lose his gravity. He extended his hand to the young maiden and said to her affably: “Happy are the fathers who have daughters like you, señorita. They have spoken to me about you with respect and consideration.... I have desired to see you and to thank you for your pretty deed of to-day. I am informed of all, and when I write to His Majesty’s Government I will not forget your generous conduct. In the meantime, señorita, allow me in the name of His Majesty the King whom I represent here and who loves to see peace and tranquillity among his subjects, and in my own name, that of a father who also has daughters of your age, allow me to extend to you most sincere thanks and propose your name for some mark of recognition.”
“Señor ...” replied Maria Clara, trembling.
His Excellency guessed what she wanted to say, and replied: “It is well enough, señorita, that you are satisfied in your own conscience with the mere esteem of your own people. The testimony of one’s people is the highest reward and we ought not to ask more. But, however, I will not let pass this excellent opportunity to show you that, if justice knows how to punish, she also knows how to reward and is not always blind.”
“Señor Don Juan Crisostomo awaits Your Excellency’s orders,” announced the adjutant in a loud voice.
Maria Clara trembled.
“Ah!” exclaimed the Governor General. “Permit me, señorita, to express the desire to see you again before I leave town. I still have some very important things to say to you. Señor Alcalde, Your Lordship will accompany me for a walk after the conference which I will hold alone with Señor Ibarra.”
“Your Excellency will permit us,” said Father Salví meekly, “to inform you that Señor Ibarra is excommunicated ...”
His Excellency interrupted him saying: “I am glad that I have nothing more to deplore than the condition of Father Dámaso, for whom I sincerely wish a complete recovery, because at his age a voyage to Spain for his health would not be pleasant. But this depends on him ... and in the meantime, may God preserve the health of Your Reverences.”
They retired one after the other.
“We will see who will make the journey first,” said a Franciscan.
“I am going off now right away!” said Father Sibyla, with indignation.
“And we are going back to our provinces, too,” said the Augustins.
They could not endure that through the fault of a Franciscan His Excellency had received them coldly.
In the entrance hall they met Ibarra, their host only a few hours ago. They exchanged no salutations, but their looks were eloquent.
The Alcalde, on the contrary, when the friars had disappeared, greeted the young man and extended his hand to him in a familiar way. But the arrival of the adjutant, who was looking for Ibarra, did not give them an opportunity to converse.
Ibarra was dressed in deep mourning. He presented himself in a calm manner, and bowed profoundly, despite the fact that the sight of the friars had not seemed a good omen for him.
The Governor General advanced a few steps. “It gives me great satisfaction to shake your hand. Grant me your entire confidence.”
“Señor ... such kindness...!”
“Your surprise offends me. It indicates that you did not expect a good reception from me. That is doubting my justice!”
“A friendly reception, señor, for an insignificant subject like myself, is not justice, it is a favor.”
“Well, well!” said His Excellency, sitting down and pointing out a seat for Ibarra. “Let us speak frankly. I am very much pleased with your action and I have already proposed to His Majesty’s Government that they grant you an insignia for your philanthropic intention of erecting a school.... If you had asked me, I would have attended the ceremony with a great deal of pleasure and perhaps the unpleasantness would have been avoided.”
“My idea of erecting a school seems to me so insignificant,” replied the young man, “that I did not think it an occasion worthy of taking the attention of Your Excellency from your many duties and cares. Then, too, it was my duty to first address the highest authority of the province.”
His Excellency made a bow of satisfaction and adopting a still more intimate manner, continued:
“In regard to the unpleasantness which you have had with Father Dámaso, have no fear nor regret. I will not touch a hair of your head while I govern these Islands. And in regard to the excommunication, I will speak to the Archbishop, for it is necessary for us to adapt ourselves to circumstances. Here, we cannot laugh about these things in public as we do in Spain or in cultured Europe. Nevertheless, be more prudent in the future. You have put yourself in opposition to the religious corporations, which, on account of your position and wealth, need to be respected. But I will protect you, because I like good sons, I like to see a person respect the honor of his father. I, too, love my father, and as sure as there is a God, I know what I would have done had I been in your place....”
And quickly turning the conversation, he asked: “You have told me that you come from Europe; were you in Madrid?”
“Yes, señor; for some months.”
“You have perhaps heard of my family?”
“Your Excellency had just left when I had the honor to be presented to it.”
“And why, then, did you come here without bringing some letter of introduction?”
“Señor,” replied Ibarra bowing, “because I do not come directly from Spain, and because, having heard of Your Excellency’s character, I thought that a letter of introduction would not only be useless, but even offensive. All Filipinos are recommended to you.”
A smile appeared on the lips of the old officer and he replied slowly, as if weighing and measuring his words:
“It flatters me to learn that you think so ... and ... so it ought to be. However, young man, you ought to know what loads we bear upon our shoulders here in the Philippines. Here, we, old army officers, have to do and be everything: King, Secretary of State, of War, of Agriculture, of Internal Affairs and of Justice. The worst part of it is the fact that in regard to everything we have to consult our distant Mother Country, which approves or rejects our propositions, according to circumstances, sometimes blindly. And you know how we Spaniards say: ‘Grasp much, get little.’ Then, too, we come here ignorant of the country and we leave it as soon as we begin to know it. With you I can be frank, for it would be useless to appear otherwise. In Spain, where each branch of the Government has its own Minister, born and brought up in the country, where they have the press and public opinion, the opposition is open and before the eyes of the Government, and shows up its faults; yet, even there, all is imperfect and defective. And when you consider the conditions here, it is a wonder that all is not upset, with all those advantages lacking, and with the opposition working in the dark. Good intentions and wishes are not wanting in us governing officials, but we find ourselves obliged to make use of eyes and arms which frequently we do not know, and which, perhaps, instead of serving the country, serve only their own interests. That is not our fault; it is the fault of circumstances. You arouse my interest and I do not want our present system of government to prejudice you in any way. I cannot watch everything, nor can I attend to all. Can I be useful to you in any way? Have you anything to request?”
“Señor,” he replied, “my greatest desire is the happiness of my country, a happiness due to the efforts of our Mother Country and to the efforts of my fellow countrymen, united with the eternal bonds of a common interest and common object. What I ask the Government can only give after many years of continuous work and proper reforms.”
His Excellency looked at him for several seconds with a look which Ibarra met naturally, without timidity and without boldness.
“You are the first man with whom I have spoken in this country,” he exclaimed grasping his hand.
“Your Excellency has only seen those who lead a grovelling existence in the city. You have not seen the calumniated hovels of our towns. If you had, you would have seen true men, if generous hearts and simple manners make true men.”
The Governor General arose and paced the sala from one side to the other.
“Señor Ibarra,” he exclaimed, stopping a moment. The young man arose. “I will probably leave here within a month. Your education and your mode of thinking are not for this country. Sell what you possess, get your trunk ready and come with me to Europe. That climate will be better for you.”
“I shall cherish all my life the memory of Your Excellency’s kindness,” replied Ibarra, moved by what the Governor General had said. “But I ought to live in the country where my fathers have lived....”
“Where they have died, you should say, to speak more exactly. Believe me! I possibly know your country better than you do yourself.... Ah! Now I remember,” he exclaimed changing the tone of his voice. “You are going to marry a lovely girl and I am keeping you here! Go, go to her side, and that you may have greater liberty send her father to me,” he added, smiling. “Do not forget, however, that I want you to accompany me for a walk.”
Ibarra bowed and departed.
His Excellency called his adjutant.
“I am happy,” said he, giving him a light slap on the shoulder. “To-day I have seen for the first time how one can be a good Spaniard without ceasing to be a good Filipino and to love his country. To-day, at last, I have shown the Reverences that we are not all their playthings. This young man has afforded me the opportunity, and, in a short time, I will have settled all of my accounts with the friar. It’s a pity that this young man, some day or other ... but call the Alcalde to me.”
The latter presented himself at once.
“Señor Alcalde,” he said to him, as he entered the room, “in order to avoid a repetition of scenes such as Your Honor witnessed this afternoon, scenes which I deplore because they take away the prestige of the Government and all Spaniards, I want to commend to you warmly Señor Ibarra, that you may not only aid him in carrying out his patriotic ends, but also prevent in the future any person of whatever class or under whatever pretext, from molesting him.”
The Alcalde understood the reprimand and bowed to conceal his confusion.
“Have the alferez, who is in command here, informed to the same effect. And you will find out if it is true that this officer has methods of procedure that are not in accordance with the regulations. I have heard more than one complaint on this score.”
Captain Tiago, all starched and ironed, presented himself.
“Don Santiago,” said His Excellency, in a cordial tone of voice, “a little while ago I was congratulating you on having a daughter like the Señorita de los Santos. Now I want to congratulate you on your future son-in-law. The most virtuous of daughters is certainly worthy of the best citizen of the Philippines. Is the date of the wedding known?”
“Señor!” stammered the Captain, wiping away the perspiration which was running down his face.
“O, come! I see that there is nothing definite. If you need godfathers, I will be one of them with the greatest pleasure. I would do it to take away the bad taste which so many of the weddings which I have attended here have left in my mouth,” he added, turning to the Alcalde.
“Yes, señor!” replied Captain Tiago, with a smile which inspired compassion.
Ibarra had gone in search of Maria Clara, almost on a run. He had so many things to tell her. He heard some gentle voices in one of the rooms and knocked at the door.
“Who knocks?” asked Maria Clara.
The voices were silenced and the door ... was not opened.
“It is I. May I come in?” asked the young man, his heart beating violently.
The silence was not broken. A few seconds afterward gentle steps approached the door and Sinang’s cheerful voice murmured through the key-hole: “Crisostomo, we are going to the theatre to-night. Write what you have to say to Maria Clara.”
Then the footsteps were heard retreating, as quickly as they had come.
“What does that mean!” murmured Ibarra to himself, as he went slowly away from the door.
1 A reply which accords with the Spanish idea of politeness but rather ludicrously used in this instance.
In the evening, by the light of lanterns hung from windows, to the ringing of bells and bursting of bombs, the procession started for the fourth time.
The Governor General left the house on foot, in company with his two adjutants, Captain Tiago, the Alcalde, the alferez, and Ibarra. The Civil Guards and the officials of the town preceded them and cleared the way. His Excellency had been invited to witness the procession from the house of the gobernadorcillo, in front of which a platform had been erected for the recitation of a loa, or religious poem, in honor of the Patron Saint. Ibarra had previously declined with pleasure an invitation to hear this poetical composition, as he had preferred to witness the procession from the house of Captain Tiago with Maria Clara and her friends. But, as His Excellency wished to hear the loa, there was no other remedy for Ibarra but to console himself with the hope of seeing her at the theatre.
The procession was headed by three sacristans carrying silver candlesticks. The children of the school, accompanied by their teacher, followed. Then came the small boys, with colored paper lanterns fastened to the ends of pieces of bamboo, each more or less adorned according to the caprices of the boy, for this part of the illumination was paid for entirely by themselves. However, they fulfilled this duty with a great deal of pleasure.
In the midst of it all, men serving as police, passed to and fro to see that the files of the procession were not broken or the people jammed together in a crowd. For this purpose they used their wands and inflicted some hard blows, thus managing to add to the brilliancy of the procession, to the edification of souls and to the glory of religious pomp.
At the same time that the officers inflicted these sanctified floggings with their wands free of charge, others, to console those who had been punished, distributed wax and tallow candles, also free of charge.
“Señor Alcalde,” said Ibarra, in a low voice, “do they inflict those blows to punish the sinners or merely for pleasure?”
“You are right, Señor Ibarra,” replied the Governor General, who had overheard his question. “This spectacle ... barbarous ... astonishing to those who come from other countries, ought to be prohibited.”
Although it cannot be explained, the first saint who appeared was San Juan el Baptisto. On seeing him, you would say that the cousin of Our Saviour did not enjoy any great renown among these people. He had slender feet and legs and the face of a hermit, and was carried along on an old wooden litter. In marked contrast to the representation of San Juan, was that of San Francisco, the founder of the great order. The latter was drawn in a car, and, as Tasio said: “What a car! How many lights and glass lanterns! Why, I have never seen you surrounded by so many illuminations, Giovanni Bernardone! And what music!”
Behind the music came a standard representing the same saint, but with seven wings. It was carried by the brothers of the Third Order, dressed in guingon and praying in a loud and mournful voice. The next in the procession was Santa Maria Magdalena, a most beautiful image with an abundant growth of hair, a handkerchief of embroidered piña cloth between her ring-covered fingers, and wearing a dress of silk adorned with gold-leaf. Lights and incense surrounded her. The glass tears from her eyes reflected the colors of the colored fire which was burned here and there, giving a fantastic aspect to the procession. Consequently, the sinful saint appeared to be weeping now green, now red and now blue tears. The people did not begin to burn these colored lights till San Francisco was passing; San Juan el Baptisto did not enjoy this honor, passing by quickly, ashamed perhaps to go dressed in skins among so many saints covered with gold and precious jewels.
“There goes our saint!” cried the daughter of the gobernadorcillo to her visitors. “I loaned her my rings, but I did it to get to Heaven.”
Those carrying the illuminations stopped near the platform to hear the loa. The saints did the same. They and their carriers wanted to hear the verses. Those who carried San Juan, tired of waiting, squatted down in the characteristic Filipino manner, and found it convenient to leave their burden on the ground.
“You’ll get into trouble,” objected one.
“Jesús! In the sacristy, they leave him in a corner among spider-webs....”
After Magdalena came the women. They differed from the men in arrangement. Instead of the children, the old women came first and finally the unmarried women. Behind these came the car of the Virgin, and behind that, the curate under his canopy. Father Dámaso gave the following reason for putting the young women next to the Virgin’s car: “The Virgin likes young women, but not old ones.” Of course, this explanation caused many of the older women to make wry faces, but that did not change the taste of the Virgin.
San Diego followed Magdalena, but he did not seem to rejoice over the fact, for he was as precise in his behavior as on the morning when he followed along behind San Francisco. Six brothers of the Third Order drew the car. San Diego stopped before the platform and awaited for the people to salute him.
But it was necessary to await the car which contained the image of the Virgin. Preceding this car were some people dressed in a fantastic manner which made children cry and babies scream. In the midst of that dark mass of habits, hoods and girdles, to the sound of that monotonous and nasal prayer, one could see, like white jessamine, like fresh pansies among old rags, twelve young lassies dressed in white, crowned with flowers, with hair curled and eyes bright as the necklaces they wore. Seizing hold of two wide blue bands which were tied to the car of the Virgin, they drew it along, reminding one of doves drawing the car of Spring.
And now when the images were all attentive, when this child and that had been slapped sufficiently to make him listen to the verses, when everybody had his eyes fixed on the half open curtain, at last, an aaaah! of admiration escaped from the lips of all.
And the sight merited it. A young child appeared with wings, riding boots, a cordon over its shoulder, a belt and a plumed hat.
“The Señor Alcalde!” cried some one, but the young prodigy recited a poem in such a manner that the Alcalde was not offended at the comparison.
The procession then continued. San Juan followed out his bitter career.
As the Virgin passed before the house of Captain Tiago, a heavenly song greeted her like the words of an archangel. It was a sweet, melodious, supplicating voice, weeping the Ave Maria of Gounod. The music of the procession was silenced, the praying ceased, and Father Salví himself stopped. The voice trembled and brought tears to the cheeks of those who heard it. That voice expressed more than a salutation, a prayer, or a plaint.
From the window, where he was viewing the procession, Ibarra heard the voice, and melancholy took possession of his heart. He understood what that soul was suffering and what was expressed in that song. He was afraid to think of the cause of that grief.
Why were the windows in the alferez’s house closed? Where was the masculine face and the flannel shirt of the Medusa or Muse of the Civil Guard while the procession was passing? Could she have understood how unpleasant was the sight of the swelling veins of her forehead, filled, it seemed, not with blood but with vinegar and bile; of her large cigar, that worthy ornament of her red lips; and of her envious look; could she have understood all of that, and, giving way to a generous impulse, have refrained from disturbing the gayety of the crowd by her sinister apparition?
Alas! Her generous impulses lived only in the golden age.
Her house was sad because other people were merry, as Sinang put it. There neither lanterns nor flags could be seen. In fact, if the sentry were not walking up and down in front of the gate, you would have said that the house was unoccupied.
A feeble light illumined the disarranged sala, and made transparent the oyster-shell windows filled with spider-webs and covered with dust. The Señora, according to her custom, her hands folded, sat in a wide arm-chair. She was dressed the same as every day, that is to say, outrageously out of taste. In detail, she had a handkerchief tied around her head, while short, slender locks of tangled hair hung down on either side; a blue flannel shirt over another shirt which should have been white; and a faded-out skirt which moulded itself to her slender thighs as she sat with her legs crossed and nervously wiggled her foot. From her mouth, came big puffs of smoke, which she fastidiously blew up in the space toward which she looked when her eyes were open.
That morning the Señora had not heard mass, not because she had not cared to hear it, for on the contrary she wanted to show herself to the multitude and to hear the sermon, but because her husband had not permitted her to do so. As was usually the case, his prohibition was accompanied by two or three insults, oaths and threats of kicking. The alferez understood that his “female” dressed herself in a ridiculous manner, and that it was not fitting to expose her to the eyes of the people from the capital nor even the country districts.
But she did not understand it that way. She knew that she was beautiful, attractive, that she had the manners of a queen and that she dressed much better and more gorgeously than Maria Clara herself, though to be sure the latter wore a tapis over her skirt while she wore only the skirt. The alferez had to say to her: “Oh, shut your mouth or I’ll kick you till you do!”
Doña Consolacion did not care to be kicked, but she planned revenge.
The dark face of the Señora never had inspired confidence in anybody, not even when she painted it. That morning she was exceptionally uneasy, and as she walked from one end of the sala to the other, in silence and as if meditating something terrible, her eyes shone like those of a serpent about to be crushed. Her look was cold, luminous, and penetrating and had something vicious, loathsome and cruel in it.
The slightest defect in anything, the most insignificant or unusual noise brought forth an obscene and infamous expression; but no one responded. To offer an excuse was a crime.
So the day passed. Encountering no obstacle in her way—her husband had been invited out—she became saturated with bile.
Everything around bent itself before her. She met no resistance, there was nothing upon which she could discharge the vials of her wrath. Soldiers and servants crawled before her.
That she might not hear the rejoicing going on outside, she ordered the windows to be closed, and charged the sentry not to permit any one to enter. She tied a handkerchief around her head to prevent it from bursting; and, in spite of the fact that the sun was still shining brightly, she ordered the lamps lighted.
A madwoman who had been detained for disturbing the public peace was taken to the barracks. The alferez was not there at the time and the unhappy woman had to pass the night seated on a bench. The following day the alferez returned. Fearing lest the unhappy woman should become the butt of the crowd during the fiesta, he ordered the soldiers who were guarding her to treat her with pity and give her something to eat. Thus the demented woman passed two days.
Whether the proximity to Captain Tiago’s house made it possible for the sad song of Maria Clara to reach her ears, whether other strains of music awoke in her memories of old songs, or whether there was some other cause for it, at any rate, the madwoman began that night to sing with a sweet and melancholy voice the songs of her youth. The soldiers heard her and kept silent. Those songs brought back memories of the old times.
Doña Consolacion also heard it in her sorrow, and became interested in the person who was singing.
“Tell her to come upstairs at once!” she ordered, after some seconds of meditation. Something like a smile passed over her dry lips.
They brought the woman and she presented herself without any discomposure, and without manifesting either fear or surprise.
“Orderly, tell this woman in Tagalog to sing!” said the alfereza. “She don’t understand me; she does not know Spanish.”
The demented woman understood the orderly and sang the song “Night.”
Doña Consolacion listened to the beginning with a mocking smile which disappeared gradually from her lips. She became attentive, then more serious and pensive. The woman’s voice, the sentiment of the verses and the song itself impressed her. That dry and burning heart was perhaps softened. She understood the song well: “Sadness, cold, and dampness, wrapped in the mantle of Night descend from the sky,” as the folk song puts it. It seemed that they were also descending upon her heart. “The withered flower which during the day has paraded its dress, desirous of applause and full of vanity, at nightfall repenting, makes an effort to raise its faded petals to the sky, and begs for a little shade in which to hide itself, so as to die without the mockery of the light which saw it in its pomp, to die without the vanity of its pride being seen, and begging for a drop of dew, to weep over it. The night bird, leaving its solitary retreat in the hollow of the old tree, disturbs the melancholy of the forests....”
“No, no! Do not sing!” exclaimed the alfereza in perfect Tagalog and raising to her feet somewhat agitated. “Don’t sing! Those verses hurt me!”
The demented woman stopped. The orderly muttered “Bah!” and exclaimed “She knows how to patá Tagalog!” and stood looking at the señora full of surprise.
The Muse understood that she had been caught, and was ashamed. As her nature was not that of a woman, her shame took the form of rage and hatred. She pointed out the door to the impudent orderly and with a kick closed it behind him. She took several turns about the room, twisting a whip between her nervous hands, and then, stopping suddenly in front of the demented woman, said in Spanish: “Dance!”
The demented one did not move.
“Dance! Dance!” she repeated in a threatening voice.
The poor woman looked at the Señora, her eyes devoid of expression. The alfereza raised one arm and then the other, shaking them in a menacing way.
She then leaped up in the air, and jumped around urging the other woman to imitate her. The band in the procession could be heard playing a slow, majestic march, but the Señora, leaping about furiously was keeping time to different music than that the band was playing, that music which resounded within her. A curious look appeared in the madwoman’s eyes, and a weak smile moved her pale lips. She liked the Señora’s dancing.
The alfereza stopped dancing as if ashamed. She raised the whip, that terrible whip made in Ulango and improved by the alferez by winding wire around it, that same terrible whip which the ladrones and soldiers knew so well.
“Now it is your turn to dance ... dance!”
And she began to whip lightly the demented woman’s bare feet.
The pale face contracted with pain, and she was obliged to defend herself from the blows by her hands.
“Come! Go ahead!” she exclaimed with savage delight, and she passed from lento to allegro-vivace in the use of her whip.
The unhappy woman screamed and quickly raised her feet.
“You have got to dance, you d——d Indian!” exclaimed the Señora and the whip whizzed and whistled.
The woman let herself sink to the floor and tried to cover her legs with her hands, at the same time looking with wild eyes at her tormentor. Two heavy lashes on her back made her rise again. Now it was no longer a scream; it was a howl which escaped from the unfortunate woman. The thin shirt was torn, the skin broke open and the blood oozed out.
The sight of blood excites a tiger; so, too, the sight of the blood of her victim infuriated Doña Consolacion.
“Dance! dance! Curse you! D——n you! Dance! Cursed be the mother who bore you!” she cried. “Dance, or I’ll kill you by whipping you to death!”
Then the alfereza, taking the woman with one hand and whipping her with another, began to jump and dance.
The insane woman understood her at last and went on moving her arms regardless of time or tune. A smile of satisfaction contracted the lips of the teacher. It was like the smile of a female Mephistopheles who had succeeded in developing a good pupil; it was full of hatred, contempt, mockery and cruelty; a coarse laugh could not have expressed more.
Absorbed in the enjoyment which the spectacle afforded her, she did not hear her husband coming, until he opened the door with a kick.
The alferez appeared, pale and gloomy. He saw what was going on there and looked daggers at his wife. She did not move from her tracks and stood smiling in a cynical way.
In the gentlest manner possible, he put his hand on the shoulder of the dancing woman and made her stop. The demented woman sighed and slowly sat down on the blood-covered floor.
The silence continued. The alferez was breathing heavily. His wife was observing him with her questioning eyes. She seized the whip and in a calm and measured tone asked him: “What’s the matter with you? You have not said ‘good evening’ to me.”
The alferez, without replying, called the orderly.
“Take this woman,” he said, “and have Marta give her another shirt and take care of her. Find her good food, and a good bed.... Let him look out who treats her badly!”
After carefully closing the door, he turned the key in the lock and approached his señora.
“You want me to smash you?” he said, clenching his fists.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked she, retreating a step or two.
“What’s the matter with me?” he shouted, in a thundering voice, and, giving vent to an oath, showed her a paper covered with scribbling. He continued:
“Didn’t you write this letter to the Alcalde, saying that I am paid for permitting the gambling, d——n you? I don’t know how I can keep from smashing you.”
“Go ahead! Try it if you dare!” said she, with a mocking smile. “He who smashes me has got to be more of a man than you!”
He heard the insult, but he saw the whip. He seized one of the plates which were on the table and threw it at her head. The woman, accustomed to these fights, ducked quickly and the plate was shivered to pieces against the wall. A glass, a cup, and a knife shared the same fortune.
“Coward!” she cried. “You dare not come near me!”
And then she spat at him to exasperate him more. The man, blind and howling with rage, threw himself on her, but she, with wonderful rapidity, struck him a few blows across the face with the whip, and quickly escaped. Closing the door of her room with a slam, she locked herself in. Roaring with rage and pain the alferez followed her, but, coming up against the door, he could do nothing but belch forth a string of blasphemies.
“Cursed be your ancestors, you swine! Open, d——n you! Open that door or I’ll break your skull!” he howled, pounding and kicking the panels.
Doña Consolacion did not reply. A moving of chairs and trunks could be heard, as though some one was trying to raise a barricade of household furniture. The house fairly shook with the oaths and kicks of the husband.
“Don’t you come in! Don’t you come in!” she said, in a bitter voice. “If you show yourself, I’ll shoot you!”
The husband calmed down, little by little, and contented himself with pacing from one end of the sala to the other like a wild animal in its cage.
“Go and cool your head!” continued the woman in mockery. She seemed to have concluded her preparations for defense.
“I swear that when I catch you, no one—not even God—will see you again! I’ll smash you so fine.”
“Yes! Now you can say what you wish. You would not let me go to mass. You would not let me fulfill my duty to God!” she said with such sarcasm as she alone knew how to use.
The alferez took his helmet, straightened out his clothes, and walked away several paces. But, at the end of several minutes, he returned without making the slightest noise, for he had taken off his boots. The servants, accustomed to these spectacles, paid no attention to them, but the novelty of this move with the boots attracted their notice and they gave each other the wink.
The alferez sat down on a chair next to the door and had the patience to wait more than half an hour.
“Have you really gone out or are you there, you he-goat?” asked a voice from time to time, changing the epithets but raising the tone.
Finally, she commenced to take away the furniture from her barricade. He heard the noise and smiled.
“Orderly! Has the señor gone out?” cried Doña Consolacion.
The orderly at a signal from the alferez, replied: “Yes, señora, he has gone out!”
He could hear her laugh triumphantly. She drew back the bolt. The husband arose to his feet slowly; the door was opened.
A cry, the noise of a body falling, oaths, howling, swearing, blows, hoarse voices. Who can describe what took place in the darkness of the bedroom?
The orderly, going out to the kitchen, made a very expressive gesture to the cook.
“And now you’ll catch it!” said the latter.
“I? No, sir. The town will, not I. She asked me if he had gone out, not if he had returned.”