It was about ten o’clock at night. The last rockets lazily soared into the dark sky, where paper balloons shone like new stars. Some of the fireworks had set fire to houses and were threatening them with destruction; for this reason men could be seen on the ridges of the roofs carrying buckets of water and long bamboo poles with cloths tied on the ends. Their dark shadows seemed descended from ethereal space to be present at the rejoicings of human beings. An enormous number of wheels had been burned, also castles, bulls, caraboas and other pieces of fireworks, and finally a great volcano, which surpassed in beauty and grandeur anything that the inhabitants of San Diego had ever seen.
Now the people turned in one great crowd toward the plaza to attend the last theatrical performance. Here and there could be seen the colored Bengal lights, fantastically illuminating groups of merry people. The small boys were making use of their torches to search for unexploded firecrackers in the grass, or, in fact, for anything else that might be of use to them. But the music was the signal and all abandoned the lawn for the theatre.
The large platform was splendidly illuminated. Thousands of lights surrounded the pillars and hung from the roof, while a number, in pyramid-shaped groups, were arranged on the floor of the stage. An employee attended to these and whenever he would come forward to regulate them, the public would whistle at him and shout: “There he is! There he is now!”
In front of the stage, the orchestra tuned its instruments, and behind the musicians sat the principal people of the town. Spaniards and rich visitors were occupying the reserved chairs. The public, the mass of people without titles or rank, filled the rest of the plaza. Some carried with them benches, not so much for seats as to remedy their lack of stature. When they stood upon them, rude protests were made on the part of those without benches or things to stand on. Then they would get down immediately, but soon mount up on their pedestals again as if nothing had happened.
Comings and goings, cries, exclamations, laughter, squibs that had been slow in going off, and firecrackers increased the tumult. Here, a foot broke through a bench, and some one fell to the floor, while the crowd laughed and made a show of him who had come so far to see a show. There, they fought and disputed over positions, and, a little farther on, the noise of breaking bottles and glasses could be heard: it was Andeng. She was carrying drinks and refreshments on a tray which she was balancing with both hands, but she had met her lover and he tried to take advantage of her helplessness by tickling....
The teniente mayor presided at the production since the gobernadorcillo was fonder of monte.
Maria Clara and her friends had arrived, and Don Filipo received them, and accompanied them to their seats. Behind came the curate with another Franciscan and some Spaniards. With the curate were some other people who make it their business to escort the friars.
“May God reward them in another life,” said the old man, referring to them as he walked away from Maria Clara’s party.
The performance began with Chananay and Marianito in Crispinoé la Comare. Everybody had eyes and ears intent upon the stage, except one, Father Salví. He seemed to have come to the theatre for no other purpose than to watch Maria Clara, whose sadness gave to her beauty an air so ideal and interesting that everybody looked upon her with rapture. But the Franciscan’s eyes, deeply hidden in their hollow orbits, spoke no words of rapture. In that sombre look one could read something desperately sad. With such eyes Cain might have contemplated from afar the Paradise whose delights his mother had pictured to him.
The act was just ending when Ibarra arrived. His presence occasioned a buzz of conversation. The attention of everybody was fixed on him and on the curate.
But the young man did not seem to be aware of it, for he greeted Maria Clara and her friends with naturalness and sat down at their side. The only one who spoke was Sinang.
“Did you see the volcano when they touched it off?” she asked.
“No, my little friend. I had to accompany the Governor General.”
“Well, that is too bad! The curate came with us and he was telling us stories about condemned people. What do you think? Doesn’t he do it to make us afraid so that we cannot enjoy ourselves? How does it appear to you?”
The curate arose and approached Don Filipo, with whom he seemed to be having a lively discussion. He was speaking with animation and Don Filipo replying with moderation and in a low voice.
“I am sorry that I cannot please Your Reverence,” said the latter. “Señor Ibarra is one of the heaviest tax-payers and has a right to sit here as long as he does not disturb the public order.”
“But is not scandalizing good Christians disturbing the public order? You let a wolf into the flock. You will be held responsible for this before God and before the authorities of the town.”
“I always hold myself responsible for acts which emanate from my own will, Father,” replied Don Filipo, slightly inclining his head. “But my little authority does not give me power to meddle in religious affairs. Those who wish to avoid contact with him do not have to speak to him. Señor Ibarra does not force himself on any one.”
“But he affords danger. He who loves danger perishes in it.”
“I don’t see any danger, Father. The Alcalde and the Governor General, my superiors, have been talking with him all the afternoon, and it is not for me to give them a lesson.”
“If you don’t put him out of here, we will leave.”
“I am very, very sorry, but I cannot put any one out of here.”
The curate repented having said what he did, but now there was no alternative. He made a signal to his companion, who laboriously rose to his feet and both went out. The persons attached to the friars imitated the priests, not, however, without first glancing with hatred at Ibarra.
Murmurs and whispers increased. Then various persons approached and saluted the young man and said:
“We are with you. Take no notice of them.”
“Who are ’them’?” he asked with surprise.
“Those who have gone out in order to avoid contact with you.”
“To avoid contact with me? Contact with me?”
“Yes, they say that you are excommunicated.”
Ibarra, surprised, did not know what to say and looked around him. He saw Maria Clara, who was hiding her face behind her fan.
“But is it possible?” he exclaimed at last. “Are we still in the darkness of the Middle Ages? So that——”
And turning to the young women and changing his tone, he said:
“Excuse me; I have forgotten an appointment. I will return to accompany you home.”
“Stay!” said Sinang. “Yeyeng is going to dance in the ‘La Calandria.’ She dances divinely.”
“I cannot, my little friend, but I will certainly return.”
The murmurs increased.
While Yeyeng, dressed in the style of the lower class of Madrid, was coming on the stage with the remark: “Da Usté su permiso?” (Do you give your permission?) and as Carvajal was replying to her “Pase usté adelante” (Pass forward), two soldiers of the Civil Guard approached Don Filipo, asking him to suspend the performance.
“And what for?” asked he, surprised at the request.
“Because the alferez and his Señora have been fighting and they cannot sleep.”
“You tell the alferez that we have permission from the Alcalde, and that no one in the town has any authority over him, not even the gobernadorcillo, who is my on-ly su-per-ior.”
“Well, you will have to suspend the performance,” repeated the soldiers.
Don Filipo turned his back to them. The guards marched off.
In order not to disturb the general tranquillity, Don Filipo said not a word about the matter to any one.
After a piece of light opera, which was heartily applauded, the Prince Villardo presented himself on the stage, and challenged all the Moros, who had imprisoned his father, to a fight. The hero threatened to cut off all their heads at a single blow and to send them all to the moon. Fortunately for the Moros, who were making ready to fight to the tune of the “Riego Hymn,”1 a tumult intervened. All of a sudden, the orchestra stopped playing and the musicians made a rush for the stage, throwing their instruments in all directions. The brave Villardo was not expecting such a move, and, taking them for allies of the Moros he also threw down his sword and shield and began to run. The Moros, seeing this terrible giant fleeing, found it convenient to imitate him. Cries, sighs, imprecations and blasphemies filled the air. The people ran, trampled over each other, the lights were put out, and the glass lamps with their cocoanut oil and little wicks were flying through the air. “Tulisanes! Tulisanes!” cried some. “Fire! Fire! Ladrones!” cried others. Women and children wept, chairs and spectators were rolled over on the floor in the midst of the confusion, rush and tumult.
“What has happened?”
Two Civil Guards with sticks in hand had gone after the musicians in order to put an end to the spectacle. The teniente mayor, with the cuaderilleros,2 armed with their old sabers, had managed to arrest the two Civil Guards in spite of their resistance.
“Take them to the tribunal!” shouted Don Filipo. “Be careful not to let them get away!”
Ibarra had returned and had sought out Maria Clara. The terrified young maidens, trembling and pale, were clinging closely to him. Aunt Isabel was reciting the litanies in Latin.
The crowd having recovered a little from the fright and some one having explained what had caused the rush and tumult, indignation arose in everyone’s breast. Stones rained upon the Civil Guards who were being conducted to the tribunal by the cuaderilleros. Some one proposed that they burn the barracks of the Civil Guards and that they roast Doña Consolacion and the alferez alive.
“That is all that they are good for,” cried a woman, rolling up her sleeves and stretching out her arms. “They can disturb the people but they persecute none but honorable men. They do nothing with the tulisanes and the gamblers. Look at them! Let us burn the cuartel.”
Somebody had been wounded in the arm and was asking for confession. A plaintive voice was heard coming from under an upset bench. It was a poor musician. The stage was filled with the players and people of the town and they were all talking at the same time. There was Chananay, dressed in the costume of Leonor in the “Trovador,” talking in corrupted Spanish with Ratia, who was in a school teacher’s costume. There too, was Yeyeng, dressed in a silk wrapper, talking with the Prince Villardo. There too, Balbino and the Moros, trying to console the musicians who were more or less sorry sights. Some Spaniards were walking from one place to another, arguing with every one they met.
But a nucleus for a mob already formed. Don Filipo knew what was their intention and tried to stop them.
“Do not break the peace!” he shouted. “To-morrow we will demand satisfaction: we will have justice. I will take the responsibility for our getting justice.”
“No!” some replied. “They did the same thing in Calamba. The same thing was promised, but the Alcalde did nothing. We want justice done by our own hands. To the cuartel!”
In vain the teniente mayor argued with them. The group that had gathered showed no signs of changing its attitude or purpose. Don Filipo looked about him, in search of help. He saw Ibarra.
“Señor Ibarra, for my sake, as a favor, hold them while I seek some cuaderilleros.”
“What can I do?” asked the young man, perplexed. But the teniente mayor was already in the distance.
Ibarra in turn looked about him, for he knew not whom. Fortunately, he thought he discerned Elias, in the crowd, but not taking an active part in it. Ibarra ran up to him, seized his arm and said to him in Spanish:
“For heaven’s sake! Do something, if you can! I cannot do anything.”
The pilot must have understood, for he lost himself in the mob.
Lively discussions were heard mingled with strong interjections. Soon the mob began to disperse, each one of the participants becoming less hostile. And it was time for them to do so, for the cuaderilleros were coming to the scene with fixed bayonets.
In the meantime, what was the curate doing?
Father Salví had not gone to bed. Standing on foot, immovable and leaning his face against the shutter, he was looking toward the plaza and, from time to time, a suppressed sigh escaped his breast. If the light of his lamp had not been so dim, perhaps one might have seen that his eyes were filling with tears. Thus he stood for almost an hour.
The tumult in the plaza roused him from this state. Full of surprise, he followed with his eyes the people as they rushed to and fro in confusion. Their voices and cries he could vaguely hear even at that distance. One of the servants came running in breathlessly and informed him what was going on.
A thought entered his mind. Amid confusion and tumult libertines take advantage of the fright and the weakness of woman. All flee to save themselves; nobody thinks of anyone else; the women faint and their cries are not heard; they fall; are trampled over; fear and fright overcome modesty, and under cover of darkness.... He fancied he could see Ibarra carrying Maria Clara fainting in his arms, and then disappearing in the darkness.
With leaps and bounds, he went down the stairs without hat, or cane, and, almost like a crazy person, turned toward the plaza.
There he found some Spaniards reproving the soldiers. He looked toward the seats which Maria Clara and her friends had been occupying, and saw that they were vacant.
“Father curate! Father curate!” shouted the Spaniards to him, but he took no notice and ran on in the direction of the house of Captain Tiago. There he recovered his breath. He saw through the transparent shade, a shadow—that adorable shadow, so graceful and delicate in its contour—that of Maria Clara. He could also see another shadow, that of her aunt carrying cups and glasses.
“Well!” he muttered to himself. “It seems that she has only fallen ill.”
Aunt Isabel afterward closed the shell windows and the graceful shadow could no longer be seen.
The curate walked away from there without seeing the crowd. He was looking at the bust of a beautiful maiden which he had before his eyes, a maiden sleeping and breathing sweetly. Her eyelids were shaded by long lashes, which formed graceful curves like those on Rafael’s virgins. Her small mouth was smiling, and her whole countenance seemed to breathe virginity, purity and innocence. That sweet face of hers on the background of the white draperies of the bed was a vision like the head of a cherubim among the clouds. His impassioned imagination went on and pictured to him.... Who can describe all that a burning brain can conceive?
Ibarra found his mind in such a state that it was impossible for him to sleep. So, in order to divert himself and to drive away the gloomy idea which distracted his mind, he began work in his solitary laboratory. Morning came upon him, still at work making mixtures and compounds to the action of which he submitted pieces of cane and other substances, and afterward enclosed them in numbered and sealed flasks.
A servant entered, announcing the arrival of a peasant.
“Let him enter!” said he, without even turning to look.
Elias entered and remained standing in silence.
“Ah! is it you?” Ibarra exclaimed in Tagalog on recognizing him. “Excuse me if I have kept you waiting. I was not aware of your presence. I was making an important experiment.”
“I do not wish to disturb you!” replied the young pilot. “I have come in the first place, to ask you if you want anything from the province of Batangas, whither I am going now; and, in the second place, to give you some bad news.”
Ibarra looked inquiringly at the pilot.
“The daughter of Captain Tiago is ill,” added Elias quietly, “but the illness is not serious.”
“I had already feared it,” responded Ibarra. “Do you know what the illness is?”
“A fever. Now, if you have nothing to order——”
“Thanks, my friend. I wish you a good journey, but before you go, permit me to ask you a question. If it is indiscreet, do not answer me.”
“How were you able to quiet the mob last night?” asked Ibarra, fixing his eyes on him.
“In a very simple way,” replied Elias, with entire frankness. “At the head of it were two brothers whose father died from the effects of a whipping at the hands of the Civil Guard. One day I had the fortune to save them from the same hands into which their father fell, and for this both are under obligations to me. Last night I went to them, and requested them to dissuade the others from their purpose.”
“And those two brothers whose father died by being whipped to death?”
“They will end their lives in the same way,” replied Elias in a low voice. “When adversity has marked itself once on a family, all the members have to perish. When the lightning strikes a tree, it reduces it all to ashes.”
And Elias, seeing that Ibarra was silent, took his leave.
The latter on finding himself alone, lost the serenity of countenance which he had preserved in the presence of the pilot, and grief manifested itself in his face.
“I—I have made her suffer,” he muttered.
He quickly dressed himself and descended the stairs.
A little man, dressed in mourning, with a large scar on his left cheek, meekly saluted him, stopping him on his way.
“What do you wish?” Ibarra asked him.
“Señor, my name is Lucas. I am the brother of the man who was killed yesterday during the ceremony when the stone was being laid.”
“Ah! You have my sympathy—and, well?”
“Señor, I wish to know how much you are going to pay my brother’s family.”
“How much I am going to pay?” repeated the young man without being able to conceal a bored expression. “We will talk that over. Come back this afternoon, for I am busy to-day.”
“Only tell me how much you are going to pay,” insisted Lucas.
“I have told you that we would talk about that some other time. I’m too busy to-day,” said Ibarra, impatiently.
“You haven’t time now, señor?” asked Lucas with bitterness and putting himself in front of the young man. “You do not have time to occupy yourself about the dead?”
“Come this afternoon, my good fellow!” repeated Ibarra, restraining himself. “To-day I have to go and see a sick person.”
“Ah! and you forget the dead for a sick person? Do you think that because we are poor——”
Ibarra looked at him and cut off what he was saying.
“Don’t try my patience!” said he, and went on his way. Lucas stood looking at him, with a smile on his face, full of hatred.
“You do not know that you are a grandson of the man who exposed my father to the sun!” he muttered between his teeth. “You have the very same blood in your veins!”
And, changing his tone he added:
The festival was over. The citizens found, just as every year, that their treasury was poorer, that they had worked, perspired, and stayed up nights without enjoying themselves, without acquiring new friends, and in a word, had paid dearly for the noise and their headaches. But it did not matter. The next year they would do the same thing, and the same for the coming century, just as had always been the custom to the present time.
Enough sadness reigned in Captain Tiago’s house. All the windows were closed; the people scarcely made a noise, and no one dared to speak except in the kitchen. Maria Clara, the soul of the house, lay sick in her bed.
“What do you think, Isabel? Shall I make a donation to the cross of Tunasan or to the cross of Matahong?” asked the solicitous father in a low voice. “The cross of Tunasan grows, but that of Matahong sweats. Which do you think is the most miraculous?”
Isabel thought for a moment, moved her head and murmured: “To grow—to grow is more miraculous than to sweat. We all sweat, but we do not all grow.”
“That is true, yes, Isabel, but bear in mind that for wood to sweat when it is made into the leg of a chair is no small miracle. Well, the best thing to do is to give alms to both crosses, so that neither will feel resentful, and Maria Clara will recover more quickly. Are the rooms in good order? You know that a new señor comes with the doctors, a relative of Father Dámaso by marriage. It is necessary that nothing be lacking.”
The two cousins, Sinang and Victoria, were at the other end of the dining-room. They had come to keep company with the sick Maria. Andeng was helping them clean up a tea service in order to serve tea.
“Do you know Doctor Espadaña?” asked Maria Clara’s foster sister, directing her question to Victoria.
“No!” replied the latter. “The only thing that I know about him is that he charges very dearly, according to Captain Tiago.”
“Then he ought to be very good,” said Andeng. “The one who performed the operation on the stomach of Doña Marta charged a big price, but he was very wise.”
“You goose!” exclaimed Sinang. “Not all who charge high prices are wise. Look at Doctor Guevara. He did not know how to aid a woman in childbirth, but after cutting off the child’s head, he collected one hundred pesos from the widower. What he did know was how to charge.”
“What do you know about it?” her cousin asked, giving her a jab with her elbow.
“Why shouldn’t I know about it? The husband, who is a wood-sawyer, after losing his wife, had to lose his house also, for the Alcalde was a friend of the doctor’s and made him pay. Why shouldn’t I know? My father loaned him money so that he could make a trip to Santa Cruz.”
A coach stopped before the house and cut off all the conversation.
Captain Tiago, followed by Aunt Isabel, ran downstairs to receive the new arrivals. They were the doctor, Don Tiburcio de Espadaña, his wife, Doctora Doña Victorina de los Reyes de de Espadaña; and a young Spaniard. The latter had a sympathetic face and a pleasing appearance.
The doctora wore a silk gown, embroidered with flowers, and on her hat, a large parrot half crushed among trimmings of red and blue ribbons. The dust of the road had mingled with the rice powder on her cheeks, strongly accentuating her wrinkles. She was leaning on the arm of her lame husband.
“I have the pleasure to present to you our cousin, Don Alfonso Linares de Espadaña,” said Doña Victorina, pointing toward the young man. “The gentleman is a god-son of a relative of Father Dámaso, and is private secretary to all the ministers.”
The young man bowed gracefully. Captain Tiago almost kissed his hand.
Doña Victorina was a woman of about forty-five summers, which, according to her arithmetical calculations, was equivalent to thirty-two springs. She had been pretty in her youth, but, raging over her own beauty, she had looked with disdain on many Filipino adorers, for her aspirations were for the other race. She had not cared to entrust her little white hand to anybody, but this not on account of lack of confidence on her part, for she had entrusted rings and jewels of inestimable value to various foreign adventurers.
Six months before the time of the happenings of which we are writing, she saw her beautiful dream realized, that dream of her whole life, on account of which she had disdained all manner of flattery and even the promises of love, which had been cooed into her ears, or sung in serenades by Captain Tiago. Late, it is true, she had realized her dream; but she knew well the proverb—“Better late than never,” and consoled herself by repeating it again and again. “There is no complete happiness on this earth,” was her other favorite proverb, but neither of these ever passed her lips in the presence of other people.
Doña Victorina, after passing her first, second, third and fourth youth in fishing in the sea of men for the object of her dreams, had at last to content herself with what fortune cared to give her. The poor little woman, if she, instead of having passed thirty-two springs, had not passed more than thirty-one—the difference according to her arithmetic was very great—would have thrown back the prize which Destiny offered her, and preferred to wait for another more in conformity with her tastes. But, as the man proposed and necessity disposed it so, for she needed a husband very badly, she was compelled to content herself with a poor man, who had been driven by necessity to leave the Province of Estremadura in Spain. He, after wandering about the world for six or seven months, a modern Ulysses, found at last in the island of Luzon, hospitality, money, and a faded Calypso, his better half—but alas! a bitter half. He was known as the unhappy Tiburcio Espadaña, and, although he was thirty-five years old and seemed even older, he was, however, younger than Doña Victorina, who was only thirty-two.
He had come to the Philippines in the capacity of clerk in the custom house, but after all the sea-sickness of the voyage and after fracturing a leg on the way, he had the bad luck to receive his discharge fifteen days after his arrival. He was left without a single cuarto.
Distrusting the sea, he did not wish to return to Spain without having made a fortune. So he decided to devote himself to something. Spanish pride did not permit him to do any manual labor. The poor man would have worked with pleasure to have earned an honorable living, but the prestige of the Spaniard did not permit this, nor did that prestige provide him with the necessities of life.
At first he lived at the expense of some of his countrymen, but, as Tiburcio had some self-respect, the bread was sour to him, and instead of getting fat he grew thin. As he had neither knowledge of any science, money nor recommendations, his countrymen, in order to get rid of him, advised him to go to some of the provinces and pass himself off as a Doctor of Medicine. At first, he did not like the idea, and opposed the plan, for although he had been a servant in the San Carlos Hospital, he had not learned anything about the science of healing, his duty having been to dust off the benches and light the fires, and, even in this work, he had served only a short time. But as necessity was pressing him hard, and as his friends pointed out the vanity of his scruples, he took their advice, went into the provinces and began to visit the sick, charging as much for his services as his conscience permitted. Later on he began to charge dearly and to put a high price on his visits. On this account, he was at once taken to be a great doctor and would probably have made his fortune, had not the attention of the Protective Medical Society of Manila, been called to his exorbitant charges and to his harmful competition.
Private citizens and professors interceded in his behalf. “Man!” said the zealous Doctor C. in speaking of him. “Let him make his little money. Let him make his little six or seven thousand pesos. He will be able to return to his native land then and live in peace. What does it matter to you? Let him deceive the unwary natives. Then they may become smarter. He is a poor, unhappy fellow. Do not take the bread from his mouth. Be a good Spaniard!”
Doctor C. was a good Spaniard and he winked at the matter. But when the facts reached the ears of the people, they began to lose confidence in him, and little by little Don Tiburcio Espadaña lost his clientage, and found himself almost obliged to beg for bread day by day. Then it was that he learned from a friend of his, who was also a friend of Doña Victorina about the position of that woman, and about her patriotism and good heart. Don Tiburcio saw in her a bit of blue sky and asked to be presented.
Doña Victorina and Don Tiburcio met. Tarde venientibus ossa, he would have exclaimed if he had known Latin. She was no longer passable, she was past. Her abundant hair had been reduced to a wad about the size of an onion top, as the servants were wont to describe it. Her face was full of wrinkles and her teeth had begun to loosen. Her eyes had also suffered, and considerably, too. She had to squint frequently when she cared to look off at a certain distance. Her character was the only thing that had remained unchanged.
At the end of half an hour’s conversation, they came to an understanding and accepted each other. She would have preferred a Spaniard less lame, less of a stammerer, less bald, one with more teeth, one of more rank and social standing, or categoría, as she called it. But this class of Spaniards never came to ask her hand. She had heard, too, more than once that “opportunity is bald,” and she honestly believed that Don Tiburcio was that very opportunity, for on account of his dark days he had prematurely lost his hair. What woman is not prudent at thirty-two?
Don Tiburcio, for his part, felt a vague melancholy when he thought of his honeymoon. He smiled with resignation especially when he called the phantom of hunger to his aid. He had never had ambition or pretensions. His tastes were simple, his thoughts limited; but his heart, untouched till then, had dreamed of a very different divinity. In his youth when, tired by his day’s labor, after a frugal meal, he lay down on a poor bed, he dreamed of a smiling, affectionate image. Afterward, when his sorrows and privations increased, the years passed and his poetical dreams were not fulfilled, he thought merely of a good woman, a willing hand, a worker, who might afford him a small dowry, console him when tired from labor, and quarrel with him from time to time. Yes, he was thinking of the quarrels as a happiness! But when, obliged to wander from country to country, in search no longer of a fortune, but of some commodity to sustain his life for the remainder of his days; when, deluded by the accounts of his countrymen who came from beyond the seas, he embarked for the Philippines—then the vision of a housekeeper gave way to an image of an arrogant mestiza, a beautiful native with large black eyes, draped in silks and transparent garments, loaded with diamonds and gold, offering him her love and her carriages.
He arrived in the Philippines and believed that he was about to realize his dream, for the young women who, in silver-plated carriages, frequented the Luneta and the Malecon, Manila’s popular and fashionable drives, looked at him with a certain curiosity. Later, when this curiosity on their part had ceased, the mestiza disappeared from his dreams, and with great labor he formed in his mind a picture of a widow, but an agreeable widow. So it was that when he saw only part of his dream taking on real form, he became sad. But he was somewhat of a philosopher and said to himself: “That was a dream, but in the world one does not live in dreams.” Thus he settled all his doubts; she wasted a lot of rice powder on her cheeks. Pshaw! When they were once married he would make her stop that easily enough; she had many wrinkles in her face, but his coat had more bare spots and patches; she was old, pretentious, and imperious, but hunger was more imperious, and still more pretentious; and then, too, he had a sweet disposition, and, who could tell?—love modifies character; she spoke Spanish very badly, but he himself did not speak it well; at least, the head of the Customs department had so notified him in his discharge from his position, and besides, what did it matter? What if she was old and ridiculous? He was lame, toothless and bald. When some friend jested with him, he would respond: “Give me bread and call me a fool.”
Don Tiburcio was what is vulgarly called a man who would not harm a fly. He was modest and incapable of conceiving an evil thought. He would have made a good missionary had he lived in olden times. His stay in the country had not given him that conviction of his own superiority, of his own worth, and of his high importance, which the larger part of his countrymen acquire in a few weeks in the Philippines. His heart had never been able to conceive hatred for anybody or anything. He had not yet been able to find a revolutionist. He only looked upon the people as unhappy beings whom it was fitting for him to deprive of a little of their wealth in order to prevent himself becoming even more unhappy than they. When they tried to make a case against him for passing as a doctor without a proper license, he did not resent it, he did not complain. He saw the justice of the case, and only replied: “But it is necessary to live!”
So they were married and went to Santa Aña to pass their honeymoon. But on the night of the wedding Doña Victorina had a bad attack of indigestion. Don Tiburcio gave thanks to God and showed solicitude and care. On the second night, however, he conducted himself like an honorable man, but on the day following, when he looked in the mirror at his bare gums, he smiled with melancholy: he had grown ten years older at least.
Doña Victorina, charmed with her husband, had a good set of front teeth made for him, and had the best tailors in the city dress and equip him. She ordered carriages and calesas, sent to Batangas and Albay provinces for the finest spans of horses, and even obliged him to make two entries in the coming horse races.
In the meantime, while she was transforming her husband, she did not forget her own person. She laid aside the silk saya or Filipino skirt and piña cloth bodice, for a dress of European style. She substituted false curls in front for the simple hair dress of the Filipinos. Her dresses, which fitted her “divinely bad,” disturbed the peace and tranquillity of the entire neighborhood.
The husband never went out of the house afoot—she did not want people to see that he was lame. He always took her for drives through the places most deserted, much to her pain, for she wanted to display her husband on the drives most frequented by the public. But out of respect for their honeymoon, she kept silent.
The last quarter of the honeymoon had just begun when he wanted to stop her from using rice powder on her cheeks, saying to her that it was false and not natural. Doña Victorina frowned and looked squarely at his front set of teeth. He at once became silent, and she learned his weakness.
She soon got the idea that she was to become a mother and made the following announcement to all her friends: “Next month, we, I and de Espadaña are going to the Peñinsula.1 I don’t want to have my son born here and have them call him a revolutionist.”
She added a de to her husband’s name. The de did not cost anything and gave categoría to the name. When she signed herself, she wrote Victorina de los Reyes de de Espadaña. That de de Espadaña was her mania. Neither the lithographer who printed her cards, nor her husband, could get the idea out of her head.
“If I do not put more than one de in the name people will think that I haven’t it, fool!” said she to her husband.
She was talking continually about her preparations for the voyage to Spain. She learned by memory the names of the points where the steamers called, and it was a pleasure to hear her talk—“I am going to see the sismus of the Suez Canal. De Espadaña thinks that it is the most beautiful, and De Espadaña has seen the whole world.”—“I will probably never return to this land of savages.”—“I was not born to live here. Aden or Port Said would be more suitable for me. I have always thought so since I was a child.” Doña Victorina, in her geography, divided the world into two parts, the Philippines and Spain. In this she differed from the lower class of people in Madrid for they divide it into Spain and America, or Spain and China, America and China being merely different names for the same country.
The husband knew that some of these things were barbarisms, but he kept silent so that she would not mock him and twit him with his stammering. She feigned to be whimsical in order to increase her illusion that she was a mother, and she began to dress herself in colors, adorn herself with flowers and ribbons, and to walk through the Escolta in a wrapper. But oh! what an illusion! Three months passed and the dream vanished. By this time, having no fear that her son would be a revolutionist, she gave up the voyage. She consulted doctors, mid-wives and old women, but all in vain. To the great displeasure of Captain Tiago she made fun of San Pascual Bailon, as she did not care to run to any saint. On account of this a friend of her husband told her:
“Believe me, Señora, you are the only espiritu fuerte (strong-minded person) in this country.”
She smiled without understanding what espiritu fuerte meant, but, at night, when it was time to be sleeping, she asked her husband about it.
“Daughter,” replied he, “the e—espir—espiritu most fu-fuerte that I know—know about is a—a—ammonia. My fr-fr-friend must have be-been us-using a figure of rhetoric.”
From that time on, she was always saying, whenever she could, “I am the only ammonia in this country, speaking rhetorically, as Señor N. de N. who is from the Peñinsula and who has much categoría, puts it.”
Whatever she said had to be done. She had come to dominate her husband completely. On his part, he offered no great resistance, and was converted into a little lap dog for her. If he incommoded her she would not let him go out for a drive, and when she became really infuriated, she would snatch out his false teeth and leave him a horrible-looking man for one or more days, according to the offense.
It occurred to her that her husband ought to be a Doctor of Medicine and Surgery, and so she expressed herself to him.
“Daughter! Do you want them to arrest me?” he said, frightened.
“Don’t be a fool. Let me arrange it!” she replied. “You are not going to attend any one, but I want them to call you a doctor and me a doctora, eh?”
And on the following day Rodoreda, a prominent marble dealer in Manila, received an order for the following engraving on black marble: Dr. De Espadaña, Specialist in All Kinds of Diseases.
All of the servants had to give them their new titles, and, in consequence of it all, she increased the number of her curls in front, the layer of rice powder, the ribbons and laces, and looked with more disdain than ever on the poor and less fortunate women of her country, who had less categoría than she. Each day she felt herself more dignified and elevated, and, following along this road, in less than a year she would think herself of divine origin.
These sublime thoughts, however, did not prevent her from growing more ridiculous and older each day. Every time that Captain Tiago met her in the street and remembered that he had once made love to her in vain, he would go at once to the church and give a peso for a mass as a thank offering for his good luck in not marrying her. In spite of this, Captain Tiago highly respected her husband, on account of his title of “specialist in all kinds of diseases,” and he listened with close attention to the few phrases that he managed to stutter out. In fact, it was on account of this title and the fact that the doctor did not attend everybody, that the Captain chose him to attend his daughter.
As to the young man Linares, it is a different story. When she was making ready for her voyage to Spain, Doña Victorina thought of having an administrator from the Peñinsula to look after her affairs, for she did not trust Filipinos. Her husband remembered a nephew in Madrid who was studying to become a lawyer, and who was considered the smartest one in his family. They wrote to him, then, sending him in advance money for the passage, and, when the dream was dispelled, the young man was already on his way.
These are the three persons who had just arrived.
While they were eating their breakfast, Father Salví arrived, and, as the husband and wife had already met the friar, they presented him to the young Linares, with all his titles. The young man blushed.
As was natural they spoke of Maria Clara. The young maiden was resting and sleeping. They talked over the voyage. Doña Victorina showed her verbosity by criticising the customs of the provinces, the nipa houses, the bamboo bridges, without forgetting to tell the curate about her friendship with the Commander of the Army, the Alcalde so and so, Judge so and so of the Supreme Court, and with the governor of the province, all persons of categoría, who had much consideration for her.
“If you had come two days before, Dona Victorina,” replied Captain Tiago during a short pause, “you would have met His Excellency, the Governor General. He sat right there.”
“What? How’s that? Was His Excellency here? And in your house? A lie!”
“I tell you he sat right there. If you had come two days before——”
“Ah! What a shame that little Clara did not fall sick before!” exclaimed she, in real sorrow. And directing herself to Linares: “Do you hear, cousin? His Excellency was here! You see De Espadaña was right when he told you that we were not going to the house of a miserable native. For you should know, Don Santiago, that our cousin was a friend of all the Ministers in Madrid and all the Dukes, and he dined in the house of Count del Campanario (belfry).”
“Duke de la Torre (tower), Victorina,” said her husband, correcting her.
“It amounts to the same thing. Do you think you can tell me that——”
“Would I find Father Dámaso in town to-day?” interrupted Linares, turning to Father Salví. “They have told me that he is near here.”
“He is, precisely, and will come here in a little while,” replied the curate.
“How glad I am! I have a letter for him,” exclaimed the young man. “And if it had not been for this happy chance which brought me here, I would have come expressly to visit him.”
“The happy chance—that is, Maria Clara—had, in the meantime awakened.”
“De Espadaña!” said Doña Victorina, finishing her breakfast. “Are we going to see little Clara?” And turning to Captain Tiago, “For you only, Don Santiago; for you alone! My husband does not treat anybody except people of categoría, and he even refuses some of them! My husband is not like those about here—in Madrid he only visited people of categoría.”
They passed into the sick room.
The room was almost dark. The windows were shut for fear of a draught, and the little light which illuminated the room came from the two wax candles which were burning in front of an image of the Virgin of Antipolo.
Her head wrapped up in a handkerchief, saturated in cologne water, her body wrapped in wide folds of white sheets which outlined her virginal form, the sick maiden lay on her bed of kamakon2 among jusi and piña curtains. Her hair, forming a frame around her oval face, increased her transparent paleness, which was animated only by her large eyes full of sadness. At her side were her two friends and Andeng.
De Espadaña felt of her pulse, examined her tongue, asked some questions, and shaking his head seriously, said:
“Sh-sh-she is si-sick. But we-we-we can cu-cu-cure her.”
Doña Victorina looked with pride at those around her.
“A li-lichen in mil-milk in the-the morning; syrup of marsh marsh-mal-mallow, tw-o—two hounds’—hounds’ tongue pi-pills,” ordered De Espadaña.
“Take courage, little Clara,” said Doña Victorina, approaching her. “We have come to cure you. I am going to present our cousin to you.”
Linares was absorbed, contemplating those eloquent eyes which seemed to be seeking some one, and he did not hear Doña Victorina call him.
“Señor Linares,” said the curate, calling him out of his ecstacy. “Here comes Father Dámaso.”
In fact, Father Dámaso was coming, pale and somewhat sad. On leaving his bed, his first visit was to Maria Clara. He was no longer the Father Dámaso that he had been, so robust and talkative. He now walked along in silence and with unsteady footsteps.