Ibarra was in such a state of mind that he found it impossible to sleep, so to distract his attention from the sad thoughts which are so exaggerated during the night-hours he set to work in his lonely cabinet. Day found him still making mixtures and combinations, to the action of which he subjected pieces of bamboo and other substances, placing them afterwards in numbered and sealed jars.
A servant entered to announce the arrival of a man who had the appearance of being from the country. "Show him in," said Ibarra without looking around.
Elias entered and remained standing in silence.
"Ah, it's you!" exclaimed Ibarra in Tagalog when he recognized him. "Excuse me for making you wait, I didn't notice that it was you. I'm making an important experiment."
"I don't want to disturb you," answered the youthful pilot. "I've come first to ask you if there is anything I can do for you in the province, of Batangas, for which I am leaving immediately, and also to bring you some bad news."
Ibarra questioned him with a look.
"Capitan Tiago's daughter is ill," continued Elias quietly, "but not seriously."
"That's what I feared," murmured Ibarra in a weak voice. "Do you know what is the matter with her?"
"A fever. Now, if you have nothing to command--"
"Thank you, my friend, no. I wish you a pleasant journey. But first let me ask you a question--if it is indiscreet, do not answer."
Elias bowed.
"How were you able to quiet the disturbance last night?" asked Ibarra, looking steadily at him.
"Very easily," answered Elias in the most natural manner. "The leaders of the commotion were two brothers whose father died from a beating given him by the Civil Guard. One day I had the good fortune to save them from the same hands into which their father had fallen, and both are accordingly grateful to me. I appealed to them last night and they undertook to dissuade the rest."
"And those two brothers whose father died from the beating--"
"Will end as their father did," replied Elias in a low voice. "When misfortune has once singled out a family all its members must perish,--when the lightning strikes a tree the whole is reduced to ashes."
Ibarra fell silent on hearing this, so Elias took his leave. When the youth found himself alone he lost the serene self-possession he had maintained in the pilot's presence. His sorrow pictured itself on his countenance. "I, I have made her suffer," he murmured.
He dressed himself quickly and descended the stairs. A small man, dressed in mourning, with a large scar on his left cheek, saluted him humbly, and detained him on his way.
"What do you want?" asked Ibarra.
"Sir, my name is Lucas, and I'm the brother of the man who was killed yesterday."
"Ah, you have my sympathy. Well?"
"Sir, I want to know how much you're going to pay my brother's family."
"Pay?" repeated the young man, unable to conceal his disgust. "We'll talk of that later. Come back this afternoon, I'm in a hurry now."
"Only tell me how much you're willing to pay," insisted Lucas.
"I've told you that we'll talk about that some other time. I haven't time now," repeated Ibarra impatiently.
"You haven't time now, sir?" asked Lucas bitterly, placing himself in front of the young man. "You haven't time to consider the dead?"
"Come this afternoon, my good man," replied Ibarra, restraining himself. "I'm on my way now to visit a sick person."
"Ah, for the sick you forget the dead? Do you think that because we are poor--"
Ibarra looked at him and interrupted, "Don't try my patience!" then went on his way.
Lucas stood looking after him with a smile full of hate. "It's easy to see that you're the grandson of the man who tied my father out in the sun," he muttered between his teeth. "You still have the same blood."
Then with a change of tone he added, "But, if you pay well--friends!"
CHAPTER XLII
The Espadañas
The fiesta is over. The people of the town have again found, as in every other year, that their treasury is poorer, that they have worked, sweated, and stayed awake much without really amusing themselves, without gaining any new friends, and, in a word, that they have dearly bought their dissipation and their headaches. But this matters nothing, for the same will be done next year, the same the coming century, since it has always been the custom.
In Capitan Tiago's house sadness reigns. All the windows are closed, the inmates move about noiselessly, and only in the kitchen do they dare to speak in natural tones. Maria Clara, the soul of the house, lies sick in bed and her condition is reflected in all the faces, as the sorrows of the mind may be read in the countenance of an individual.
"Which seems best to you, Isabel, shall I make a poor-offering to the cross of Tunasan or to the cross of Matahong?" asks the afflicted father in a low voice. "The Tunasan cross grows while the Matahong cross sweats which do you think is more miraculous?"
Aunt Isabel reflects, shakes her head, and murmurs, "To grow, to grow is a greater miracle than to sweat. All of us sweat, but not all of us grow."
"That's right, Isabel; but remember that to sweat for the wood of which bench-legs are made to sweat--is not a small miracle. Come, the best thing will be to make poor-offerings to both crosses, so neither will resent it, and Maria will get better sooner. Are the rooms ready? You know that with the doctors is coming a new gentleman, a distant relative of Padre Damaso's. Nothing should be lacking."
At the other end of the dining-room are the two cousins, Sinang and Victoria, who have come to keep the sick girl company. Andeng is helping them clean a silver tea-set.
"Do you know Dr. Espadaña?" the foster-sister of Maria Clara asks Victoria curiously.
"No," replies the latter, "the only thing that I know about him is that he charges high, according to Capitan Tiago."
"Then he must be good!" exclaims Andeng. "The one who performed an operation on Doña Maria charged high; so he was learned."
"Silly!" retorts Sinang. "Every one who charges high is not learned. Look at Dr. Guevara; after performing a bungling operation that cost the life of both mother and child, he charged the widower fifty pesos. The thing to know is how to charge!"
"What do you know about it?" asks her cousin, nudging her.
"Don't I know? The husband, who is a poor sawyer, after losing his wife had to lose his home also, for the alcalde, being a friend of the doctor's, made him pay. Don't I know about it, when my father lent him the money to make the journey to Santa Cruz?"
The sound of a carriage stopping in front of the house put an end to these conversations. Capitan Tiago, followed by Aunt Isabel, ran down the steps to welcome the new arrivals: the Doctor Don Tiburcio de Espadaña, his señora the Doctora Doña Victorina de los Reyes de De Espadaña, and a young Spaniard of pleasant countenance and agreeable aspect.
Doña Victorina was attired in a loose silk gown embroidered with flowers and a hat with a huge parrot half-crushed between blue and red ribbons. The dust of the road mingled with the rice-powder on her cheeks seemed to accentuate her wrinkles. As at the time we saw her in Manila, she now supported her lame husband on her arm.
"I have the pleasure of introducing to you our cousin, Don Alfonso Linares de Espadaña," said Doña Victorina, indicating their young companion. "The gentleman is a godson of a relative of Padre Damaso's and has been private secretary to all the ministers."
The young man bowed politely and Capitan Tiago came very near to kissing his hand.
While their numerous trunks and traveling-bags are being carried in and Capitan Tiago is conducting them to their rooms, let us talk a little of this couple whose acquaintance we made slightly in the first chapters.
Doña Victorina was a lady of forty and five winters, which were equivalent to thirty and two summers according to her arithmetical calculations. She had been beautiful in her youth, having had, as she used to say, 'good flesh,' but in the ecstasies of contemplating herself she had looked with disdain on her many Filipino admirers, since her aspirations were toward another race. She had refused to bestow on any one her little white hand, not indeed from distrust, for not a few times had she given jewelry and gems of great value to various foreign and Spanish adventurers. Six months before the time of our story she had seen realized her most beautiful dream,--the dream of her whole life,--for which she might scorn the fond illusions of her youth and even the promises of love that Capitan Tiago had in other days whispered in her ear or sung in some serenade. Late, it is true, had the dream been realized, but Doña Victorina, who, although she spoke the language badly, was more Spanish than Augustina of Saragossa, understood the proverb, "Better late than never," and found consolation in repeating it to herself. "Absolute happiness does not exist on earth," was another favorite proverb of hers, but she never used both together before other persons.
Having passed her first, second, third, and fourth youth in casting her nets in the sea of the world for the object of her vigils, she had been compelled at last to content herself with what fate was willing to apportion her. Had the poor woman been only thirty and one instead of thirty and two summers--the difference according to her mode of reckoning was great--she would have restored to Destiny the award it offered her to wait for another more suited to her taste, but since man proposes and necessity disposes, she saw herself obliged in her great need for a husband to content herself with a poor fellow who had been cast out from Estremadura and who, after wandering about the world for six or seven years like a modern Ulysses, had at last found on the island of Luzon hospitality and a withered Calypso for his better half. This unhappy mortal, by name Tiburcio Espadaña, was only thirty-five years of age and looked like an old man, yet he was, nevertheless, younger than Doña Victorina, who was only thirty-two. The reason for this is easy to understand but dangerous to state.
Don Tiburcio had come to the Philippines as a petty official in the Customs, but such had been his bad luck that, besides suffering severely from seasickness and breaking a leg during the voyage, he had been dismissed within a fortnight, just at the time when he found himself without a cuarto. After his rough experience on the sea he did not care to return to Spain without having made his fortune, so he decided to devote himself to something. Spanish pride forbade him to engage in manual labor, although the poor fellow would gladly have done any kind of work in order to earn an honest living. But the prestige of the Spaniards would not have allowed it, even though this prestige did not protect him from want.
At first he had lived at the expense of some of his countrymen, but in his honesty the bread tasted bitter, so instead of getting fat he grew thin. Since he had neither learning nor money nor recommendations he was advised by his countrymen, who wished to get rid of him, to go to the provinces and pass himself off as a doctor of medicine. He refused at first, for he had learned nothing during the short period that he had spent as an attendant in a hospital, his duties there having been to dust off the benches and light the fires. But as his wants were pressing and as his scruples were soon laid to rest by his friends he finally listened to them and went to the provinces. He began by visiting some sick persons, and at first made only moderate charges, as his conscience dictated, but later, like the young philosopher of whom Samaniego tells, he ended by putting a higher price on his visits. Thus he soon passed for a great physician and would probably have made his fortune if the medical authorities in Manila had not heard of his exorbitant fees and the competition that he was causing others. Both private parties and professionals interceded for him. "Man," they said to the zealous medical official, "let him make his stake and as soon as he has six or seven thousand pesos he can go back home and live there in peace. After all, what does it matter to you if he does deceive the unwary Indians? They should be more careful! He's a poor devil--don't take the bread from his mouth--be a good Spaniard!" This official was a good Spaniard and agreed to wink at the matter, but the news soon reached the ears of the people and they began to distrust him, so in a little while he lost his practise and again saw himself obliged almost to beg his daily bread. It was then that he learned through a friend, who was an intimate acquaintance of Doña Victorina's, of the dire straits in which that lady was placed and also of her patriotism and her kind heart. Don Tiburcio then saw a patch of blue sky and asked to be introduced to her.
Doña Victorina and Don Tiburcio met: tarde venientibus ossa, he would have exclaimed had he known Latin! She was no longer passable, she was passée. Her abundant hair had been reduced to a knot about the size of an onion, according to her maid, while her face was furrowed with wrinkles and her teeth were falling loose. Her eyes, too, had suffered considerably, so that she squinted frequently in looking any distance. Her disposition was the only part of her that remained intact.
At the end of a half-hour's conversation they understood and accepted each other. She would have preferred a Spaniard who was less lame, less stuttering, less bald, less toothless, who slobbered less when he talked, and who had more "spirit" and "quality," as she used to say, but that class of Spaniards no longer came to seek her hand. She had more than once heard it said that opportunity is pictured as being bald, and firmly believed that Don Tiburcio was opportunity itself, for as a result of his misfortunes he suffered from premature baldness. And what woman is not prudent at thirty-two years of age?
Don Tiburcio, for his part, felt a vague melancholy when he thought of his honeymoon, but smiled with resignation and called to his support the specter of hunger. Never had he been ambitious or pretentious; his tastes were simple and his desires limited; but his heart, untouched till then, had dreamed of a very different divinity. Back there in his youth when, worn out with work, he lay doom on his rough bed after a frugal meal, he used to fall asleep dreaming of an image, smiling and tender. Afterwards, when troubles and privations increased and with the passing of years the poetical image failed to materialize, he thought modestly of a good woman, diligent and industrious, who would bring him a small dowry, to console him for the fatigues of his toil and to quarrel with him now and then--yes, he had thought of quarrels as a kind of happiness! But when obliged to wander from land to land in search not so much of fortune as of some simple means of livelihood for the remainder of his days; when, deluded by the stories of his countrymen from overseas, he had set out for the Philippines, realism gave, place to an arrogant mestiza or a beautiful Indian with big black eyes, gowned in silks and transparent draperies, loaded down with gold and diamonds, offering him her love, her carriages, her all. When he reached Manila he thought for a time that his dream was to be realized, for the young women whom he saw driving on the Luneta and the Malecon in silver-mounted carriages had gazed at him with some curiosity. Then after his position was gone, the mestiza and the Indian disappeared and with great effort he forced before himself the image of a widow, of course an agreeable widow! So when he saw his dream take shape in part he became sad, but with a certain touch of native philosophy said to himself, "Those were all dreams and in this world one does not live on dreams!" Thus he dispelled his doubts: she used rice-powder, but after their marriage he would break her of the habit; her face had many wrinkles, but his coat was torn and patched; she was a pretentious old woman, domineering and mannish, but hunger was more terrible, more domineering and pretentious still, and anyway, he had been blessed with a mild disposition for that very end, and love softens the character. She spoke Spanish badly, but he himself did not talk it well, as he had been told when notified of his dismissal Moreover, what did it matter to him if she was an ugly and ridiculous old woman? He was lame, toothless, and bald! Don Tiburcio preferred to take charge of her rather than to become a public charge from hunger. When some friends joked with him about it, he answered, "Give me bread and call me a fool."
Don Tiburcio was one of those men who are popularly spoken of as unwilling to harm a fly. Modest, incapable of harboring an unkind thought, in bygone days he would have been made a missionary. His stay in the country had not given him the conviction of grand superiority, of great valor, and of elevated importance that the greater part of his countrymen acquire in a few weeks. His heart had never been capable of entertaining hate nor had he been able to find a single filibuster; he saw only unhappy wretches whom he must despoil if he did not wish to be more unhappy than they were. When he was threatened with prosecution for passing himself off as a physician he was not resentful nor did he complain. Recognizing the justness of the charge against him, he merely answered, "But it's necessary to live!"
So they married, or rather, bagged each other, and went to Santa Ann to spend their honeymoon. But on their wedding-night Doña Victorina was attacked by a horrible indigestion and Don Tiburcio thanked God and showed himself solicitous and attentive. A few days afterward, however, he looked into a mirror and smiled a sad smile as he gazed at his naked gums, for he had aged ten years at least.
Very well satisfied with her husband, Doña Victorina had a fine set of false teeth made for him and called in the best tailors of the city to attend to his clothing. She ordered carriages, sent to Batangas and Albay for the best ponies, and even obliged him to keep a pair for the races. Nor did she neglect her own person while she was transforming him. She laid aside the native costume for the European and substituted false frizzes for the simple Filipino coiffure, while her gowns, which fitted her marvelously ill, disturbed the peace of all the quiet neighborhood.
Her husband, who never went out on foot,--she did not care to have his lameness noticed,--took her on lonely drives in unfrequented places to her great sorrow, for she wanted to show him off in public, but she kept quiet out of respect for their honeymoon. The last quarter was coming on when he took up the subject of the rice-powder, telling her that the use of it was false and unnatural. Doña Victorina wrinkled up her eyebrows and stared at his false teeth. He became silent, and she understood his weakness.
She placed a de before her husband's surname, since the de cost nothing and gave "quality" to the name, signing herself "Victorina de los Reyes de De Espadaña." This de was such a mania with her that neither the stationer nor her husband could get it out of her head. "If I write only one de it may be thought that you don't have it, you fool!" she said to her husband.
Soon she believed that she was about to become a mother, so she announced to all her acquaintances, "Next month De Espadaña and I are going to the Penyinsula. I don't want our son to be born here and be called a revolutionist." She talked incessantly of the journey, having memorized the names of the different ports of call, so that it was a treat to hear her talk: "I'm going to see the isthmus in the Suez Canal--De Espadaña thinks it very beautiful and De Espadaña has traveled over the whole world." "I'll probably not return to this land of savages." "I wasn't born to live here--Aden or Port Said would suit me better--I've thought so ever since I was a girl." In her geography Doña Victorina divided the world into the Philippines and Spain; rather differently from the clever people who divide it into Spain and America or China for another name.
Her husband realized that these things were barbarisms, but held his peace to escape a scolding or reminders of his stuttering. To increase the illusion of approaching maternity she became whimsical, dressed herself in colors with a profusion of flowers and ribbons, and appeared on the Escolta in a wrapper. But oh, the disenchantment! Three months went by and the dream faded, and now, having no reason for fearing that her son would be a revolutionist, she gave up the trip. She consulted doctors, midwives, old women, but all in vain. Having to the great displeasure of Capitan Tiago jested about St. Pascual Bailon, she was unwilling to appeal to any saint. For this reason a friend of her husband's remarked to her:
"Believe me, señora, you are the only strong-spirited person in this tiresome country."
She had smiled, without knowing what strong-spirited meant, but that night she asked her husband. "My dear," he answered, "the s-strongest s-spirit that I know of is ammonia. My f-friend must have s-spoken f-figuratively."
After that she would say on every possible occasion, "I'm the only ammonia in this tiresome country, speaking figuratively. So Señor N. de N., a Peninsular gentleman of quality, told me."
Whatever she said had to be done, for she had succeeded in dominating her husband completely. He on his part did not put up any great resistance and so was converted into a kind of lap-dog of hers. If she was displeased with him she would not let him go out, and when she was really angry she tore out his false teeth, thus leaving him a horrible sight for several days.
It soon occurred to her that her husband ought to be a doctor of medicine and surgery, and she so informed him.
"My dear, do you w-want me to be arrested?" he asked fearfully.
"Don't be a fool! Leave me to arrange it," she answered. "You're not going to treat any one, but I want people to call you Doctor and me Doctora, see?"
So on the following day Rodoreda received an order to engrave on a slab of black marble: DR. DE ESPADAÑA, SPECIALIST IN ALL KINDS OF DISEASES. All the servants had to address them by their new titles, and as a result she increased the number of frizzes, the layers of rice-powder, the ribbons and laces, and gazed with more disdain than ever on her poor and unfortunate countrywomen whose husbands belonged to a lower grade of society than hers did. Day by day she felt more dignified and exalted and, by continuing in this way, at the end of a year she would have believed herself to be of divine origin.
These sublime thoughts, however, did not keep her from becoming older and more ridiculous every day. Every time Capitan Tiago saw her and recalled having made love to her in vain he forthwith sent a peso to the church for a mass of thanksgiving. Still, he greatly respected her husband on account of his title of specialist in all kinds of diseases and listened attentively to the few phrases that he was able to stutter out. For this reason and because this doctor was more exclusive than others, Capitan Tiago had selected him to treat his daughter.
In regard to young Linares, that is another matter. When arranging for the trip to Spain, Doña Victorina had thought of having a Peninsular administrator, as she did not trust the Filipinos. Her husband bethought himself of a nephew of his in Madrid who was studying law and who was considered the brightest of the family. So they wrote to him, paying his passage in advance, and when the dream disappeared he was already on his way.
Such were the three persons who had just arrived. While they were partaking of a late breakfast, Padre Salvi came in. The Espadañas were already acquainted with him, and they introduced the blushing young Linares with all his titles.
As was natural, they talked of Maria Clara, who was resting and sleeping. They talked of their journey, and Doña Victorina exhibited all her verbosity in criticising the customs of the provincials,--their nipa houses, their bamboo bridges; without forgetting to mention to the curate her intimacy with this and that high official and other persons of "quality" who were very fond of her.
"If you had come two days ago, Doña Victorina," put in Capitan Tiago during a slight pause, "you would have met his Excellency, the Captain-General. He sat right there."
"What! How's that? His Excellency here! In your house? No!"
"I tell you that he sat right there. If you had only come two days ago--"
"Ah, what a pity that Clarita did not get sick sooner!" she exclaimed with real feeling. Then turning to Linares, "Do you hear, cousin? His Excellency was here! Don't you see now that De Espadaña was right when he told you that you weren't going to the house of a miserable Indian? Because, you know, Don Santiago, in Madrid our cousin was the friend of ministers and dukes and dined in the house of Count El Campanario."
"The Duke of La Torte, Victorina," corrected her husband.
"It's the same thing. If you will tell me--"
"Shall I find Padre Damaso in his town?" interrupted Linares, addressing Padre Salvi. "I've been told that it's near here."
"He's right here and will be over in a little while," replied the curate.
"How glad I am of that! I have a letter to him," exclaimed the youth, "and if it were not for the happy chance that brings me here, I would have come expressly to visit him."
In the meantime the happy chance had awakened.
"De Espadaña," said Doña Victorina, when the meal was over, "shall we go in to see Clarita?" Then to Capitan Tiago, "Only for you, Don Santiago, only for you! My husband only attends persons of quality, and yet, and yet--! He's not like those here. In Madrid he only visited persons of quality."
They adjourned to the sick girl's chamber. The windows were closed from fear of a draught, so the room was almost dark, being only dimly illuminated by two tapers which burned before an image of the Virgin of Antipolo. Her head covered with a handkerchief saturated in cologne, her body wrapped carefully in white sheets which swathed her youthful form with many folds, under curtains of jusi and piña, the girl lay on her kamagon bed. Her hair formed a frame around her oval countenance and accentuated her transparent paleness, which was enlivened only by her large, sad eyes. At her side were her two friends and Andeng with a bouquet of tuberoses.
De Espadaña felt her pulse, examined her tongue, asked a few questions, and said, as he wagged his head from side to side, "S-she's s-sick, but s-she c-can be c-cured." Doña Victorina looked proudly at the bystanders.
"Lichen with milk in the morning, syrup of marshmallow, two cynoglossum pills!" ordered De Espadaña.
"Cheer up, Clarita!" said Doña Victorina, going up to her. "We've come to cure you. I want to introduce our cousin."
Linares was so absorbed in the contemplation of those eloquent eyes, which seemed to be searching for some one, that he did not hear Doña Victorina name him.
"Señor Linares," said the curate, calling him out of his abstraction, "here comes Padre Damaso."
It was indeed Padre Damaso, but pale and rather sad. On leaving his bed his first visit was for Maria Clara. Nor was it the Padre Damaso of former times, hearty and self-confident; now he moved silently and with some hesitation.
CHAPTER XLIII
Plans
Without heeding any of the bystanders, Padre Damaso went directly to the bed of the sick girl and taking her hand said to her with ineffable tenderness, while tears sprang into his eyes, "Maria, my daughter, you mustn't die!"
The sick girl opened her eyes and stared at him with a strange expression. No one who knew the Franciscan had suspected in him such tender feelings, no one had believed that under his rude and rough exterior there might beat a heart. Unable to go on, he withdrew from the girl's side, weeping like a child, and went outside under the favorite vines of Maria Clara's balcony to give free rein to his grief.
"How he loves his goddaughter!" thought all present, while Fray Salvi gazed at him motionlessly and in silence, lightly gnawing his lips the while.
When he had become somewhat calm again Doña Victorina introduced Linares, who approached him respectfully. Fray Damaso silently looked him over from head to foot, took the letter offered and read it, but apparently without understanding, for he asked, "And who are you?"
"Alfonso Linares, the godson of your brother-in-law," stammered the young man.
Padre Damaso threw back his body and looked the youth over again carefully. Then his features lighted up and he arose. "So you are the godson of Carlicos!" he exclaimed. "Come and let me embrace you! I got your letter several days ago. So it's you! I didn't recognize you,--which is easily explained, for you weren't born when I left the country,--I didn't recognize you!" Padre Damaso squeezed his robust arms about the young man, who became very red, whether from modesty or lack of breath is not known.
After the first moments of effusion had passed and inquiries about Carlicos and his wife had been made and answered, Padre Damaso asked, "Come now, what does Carlicos want me to do for you?"
"I believe he says something about that in the letter," Linares again stammered.
"In the letter? Let's see! That's right! He wants me to get you a job and a wife. Ahem! A job, a job that's easy! Can you read and write?"
"I received my degree of law from the University."
"Carambas! So you're a pettifogger! You don't show it; you look more like a shy maiden. So much the better! But to get you a wife--"
"Padre, I'm not in such a great hurry," interrupted Linares in confusion.
But Padre Damaso was already pacing from one end of the hallway to the other, muttering, "A wife, a wife!" His countenance was no longer sad or merry but now wore an expression of great seriousness, while he seemed to be thinking deeply. Padre Salvi gazed on the scene from a distance.
"I didn't think that the matter would trouble me so much," murmured Padre Damaso in a tearful voice. "But of two evils, the lesser!" Then raising his voice he approached Linares and said to him, "Come, boy, let's talk to Santiago."
Linares turned pale and allowed himself to be dragged along by the priest, who moved thoughtfully. Then it was Padre Salvi's turn to pace back and forth, pensive as ever.
A voice wishing him good morning drew him from his monotonous walk. He raised his head and saw Lucas, who saluted him humbly.
"What do you want?" questioned the curate's eyes.
"Padre, I'm the brother of the man who was killed on the day of the fiesta," began Lucas in tearful accents.
The curate recoiled and murmured in a scarcely audible voice, "Well?"
Lucas made an effort to weep and wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. "Padre," he went on tearfully, "I've been to Don Crisostomo to ask for an indemnity. First he received me with kicks, saying that he wouldn't pay anything since he himself had run the risk of getting killed through the fault of my dear, unfortunate brother. I went to talk to him yesterday, but he had gone to Manila. He left me five hundred pesos for charity's sake and charged me not to come back again. Ah, Padre, five hundred pesos for my poor brother--five hundred pesos! Ah, Padre--"
At first the curate had listened with surprise and attention while his lips curled slightly with a smile of such disdain and sarcasm at the sight of this farce that, had Lucas noticed it, he would have run away at top speed. "Now what do you want?" he asked, turning away.
"Ah, Padre, tell me for the love of God what I ought to do. The padre has always given good advice."
"Who told you so? You don't belong in these parts."
"The padre is known all over the province."
With irritated looks Padre Salvi approached him and pointing to the street said to the now startled Lucas, "Go home and be thankful that Don Crisostomo didn't have you sent to jail! Get out of here!"
Lucas forgot the part he was playing and murmured, "But I thought--"
"Get out of here!" cried Padre Salvi nervously.
"I would like to see Padre Damaso."
"Padre Damaso is busy. Get out of here!" again ordered the curate imperiously.
Lucas went down the stairway muttering, "He's another of them--as he doesn't pay well--the one who pays best!"
At the sound of the curate's voice all had hurried to the spot, including Padre Damaso, Capitan Tiago, and Linares.
"An insolent vagabond who came to beg and who doesn't want to work," explained Padre Salvi, picking up his hat and cane to return to the convento.
CHAPTER XLIV
An Examination of Conscience
Long days and weary nights passed at the sick girl's bed. After having confessed herself, Maria Clara had suffered a relapse, and in her delirium she uttered only the name of the mother whom she had never known. But her girl friends, her father, and her aunt kept watch at her side. Offerings and alms were sent to all the miraculous images, Capitan Tiago vowed a gold cane to the Virgin of Antipolo, and at length the fever began to subside slowly and regularly.
Doctor De Espadaña was astonished at the virtues of the syrup of marshmallow and the infusion of lichen, prescriptions that he had not varied. Doña Victorina was so pleased with her husband that one day when he stepped on the train of her gown she did not apply her penal code to the extent of taking his set of false teeth away from him, but contented herself with merely exclaiming, "If you weren't lame you'd even step on my corset!"--an article of apparel she did not wear.
One afternoon while Sinang and Victoria were visiting their friend, the curate, Capitan Tiago, and Doña Victorina's family were conversing over their lunch in the dining-room.
"Well, I feel very sorry about it," said the doctor; "Padre Damaso also will regret it very much."
"Where do you say they're transferring him to?" Linares asked the curate.
"To the province of Tayabas," replied the curate negligently.
"One who will be greatly affected by it is Maria Clara, when she learns of it," said Capitan Tiago. "She loves him like a father."
Fray Salvi looked at him askance.
"I believe, Padre," continued Capitan Tiago, "that all her illness is the result of the trouble on the last day of the fiesta."
"I'm of the same opinion, and think that you've done well not to let Señor Ibarra see her. She would have got worse.
"If it wasn't for us," put in Doña Victorina, "Clarita would already be in heaven singing praises to God."
"Amen!" Capitan Tiago thought it his duty to exclaim. "It's lucky for you that my husband didn't have any patient of greater quality, for then you'd have had to call in another, and all those here are ignoramuses. My husband--"
"Just as I was saying," the curate in turn interrupted, "I think that the confession that Maria Clara made brought on the favorable crisis which has saved her life. A clean conscience is worth more than a lot of medicine. Don't think that I deny the power of science, above all, that of surgery, but a clean conscience! Read the pious books and you'll see how many cures are effected merely by a clean confession."
"Pardon me," objected the piqued Doña Victorina, "this power of the confessional--cure the alferez's woman with a confession!"
"A wound, madam, is not a form of illness which the conscience can affect," replied Padre Salvi severely. "Nevertheless, a clean confession will preserve her from receiving in the future such blows as she got this morning."
"She deserves them!" went on Doña Victorina as if she had not heard what Padre Salvi said. "That woman is so insolent! In the church she did nothing but stare at me. You can see that she's a nobody. Sunday I was going to ask her if she saw anything funny about my face, but who would lower oneself to speak to people that are not of rank?"
The curate, on his part, continued just as though he had not heard this tirade. "Believe me, Don Santiago, to complete your daughter's recovery it's necessary that she take communion tomorrow. I'll bring the viaticum over here. I don't think she has anything to confess, but yet, if she wants to confess herself tonight--"
"I don't know," Doña Victorina instantly took advantage of a slight hesitation on Padre Salvi's part to add, "I don't understand how there can be men capable of marrying such a fright as that woman is. It's easily seen where she comes from. She's just dying of envy, you can see it! How much does an alferez get?"
"Accordingly, Don Santiago, tell your cousin to prepare the sick girl for the communion tomorrow. I'll come over tonight to absolve her of her peccadillos."
Seeing Aunt Isabel come from the sick-room, he said to her in Tagalog, "Prepare your niece for confession tonight. Tomorrow I'll bring over the viaticum. With that she'll improve faster."
"But, Padre," Linares gathered up enough courage to ask faintly, "you don't think that she's in any danger of dying?"
"Don't you worry," answered the padre without looking at him. "I know what I'm doing; I've helped take care of plenty of sick people before. Besides, she'll decide herself whether or not she wishes to receive the holy communion and you'll see that she says yes."
Capitan Tiago immediately agreed to everything, while Aunt Isabel returned to the sick girl's chamber. Maria Clara was still in bed, pale, very pale, and at her side were her two friends.
"Take one more grain," Sinang whispered, as she offered her a white tablet that she took from a small glass tube. "He says that when you feel a rumbling or buzzing in your ears you are to stop the medicine."
"Hasn't he written to you again?" asked the sick girl in a low voice.
"No, he must be very busy."
"Hasn't he sent any message?"
"He says nothing more than that he's going to try to get the Archbishop to absolve him from the excommunication, so that--"
This conversation was suspended at the aunt's approach. "The padre says for you to get ready for confession, daughter," said the latter. "You girls must leave her so that she can make her examination of conscience."
"But it hasn't been a week since she confessed!" protested Sinang. "I'm not sick and I don't sin as often as that."
"Abá! Don't you know what the curate says: the righteous sin seven times a day? Come, what book shall I bring you, the Ancora, the Ramillete, or the Camino Recto para ir al Cielo?"
Maria Clara did not answer.
"Well, you mustn't tire yourself," added the good aunt to console her. "I'll read the examination myself and you'll have only to recall your sins."
"Write to him not to think of me any more," murmured Maria Clara in Sinang's ear as the latter said good-by to her.
"What?"
But the aunt again approached, and Sinang had to go away without understanding what her friend had meant. The good old aunt drew a chair up to the light, put her spectacles on the end of her nose, and opened a booklet. "Pay close attention, daughter. I'm going to begin with the Ten Commandments. I'll go slow so that you can meditate. If you don't hear well tell me so that I can repeat. You know that in looking after your welfare I'm never weary."
She began to read in a monotonous and snuffling voice the considerations of cases of sinfulness. At the end of each paragraph she made a long pause in order to give the girl time to recall her sins and to repent of them.
Maria Clara stared vaguely into space. After finishing the first commandment, to love God above all things, Aunt Isabel looked at her over her spectacles and was satisfied with her sad and thoughtful mien. She coughed piously and after a long pause began to read the second commandment. The good old woman read with unction and when she had finished the commentaries looked again at her niece, who turned her head slowly to the other side.
"Bah!" said Aunt Isabel to herself. "With taking His holy name in vain the poor child has nothing to do. Let's pass on to the third."
The third commandment was analyzed and commented upon. After citing all the cases in which one can break it she again looked toward the bed. But now she lifted up her glasses and rubbed her eyes, for she had seen her niece raise a handkerchief to her face as if to wipe away tears.
"Hum, ahem! The poor child once went to sleep during the sermon." Then replacing her glasses on the end of her nose, she said, "Now let's see if, just as you've failed to keep holy the Sabbath, you've failed to honor your father and mother."
So she read the fourth commandment in an even slower and more snuffling voice, thinking thus to give solemnity to the act, just as she had seen many friars do. Aunt Isabel had never heard a Quaker preach or she would also have trembled.
The sick girl, in the meantime, raised the handkerchief to her eyes several times and her breathing became more noticeable.
"What a good soul!" thought the old woman. "She who is so obedient and submissive to every one! I've committed more sins and yet I've never been able really to cry."
She then began the fifth commandment with greater pauses and even more pronounced snuffling, if that were possible, and with such great enthusiasm that she did not hear the stifled sobs of her niece. Only in a pause which she made after the comments on homicide, by violence did she notice the groans of the sinner. Then her tone passed into the sublime as she read the rest of the commandment in accents that she tried to reader threatening, seeing that her niece was still weeping.
"Weep, daughter, weep!" she said, approaching the bed. "The more you weep the sooner God will pardon you. Hold the sorrow of repentance as better than that of mere penitence. Weep, daughter, weep! You don't know how much I enjoy seeing you weep. Beat yourself on the breast also, but not hard, for you're still sick."
But, as if her sorrow needed mystery and solitude to make it increase, Maria Clara, on seeing herself observed, little by little stopped sighing and dried her eyes without saying anything or answering her aunt, who continued the reading. Since the wails of her audience had ceased, however, she lost her enthusiasm, and the last commandments made her so sleepy that she began to yawn, with great detriment to her snuffling, which was thus interrupted.
"If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it," thought the good old lady afterwards. "This girl sins like a soldier against the first five and from the sixth to the tenth not a venial sin, just the opposite to us! How the world does move now!"
So she lighted a large candle to the Virgin of Antipolo and two other smaller ones to Our Lady of the Rosary and Our Lady of the Pillar, taking care to put away in a corner a marble crucifix to make it understand that the candles were not lighted for it. Nor did the Virgin of Delaroche have any share; she was an unknown foreigner, and Aunt Isabel had never heard of any miracle of hers.
We do not know what occurred during the confession that night and we respect such secrets. But the confession was a long one and the aunt, who stood watch over her niece at a distance, could note that the curate, instead of turning his ear to hear the words of the sick girl, rather had his face turned toward hers, and seemed only to be trying to read, or divine, her thoughts by gazing into her beautiful eyes.
Pale and with contracted lips Padre Salvi left the chamber. Looking at his forehead, which was gloomy and covered with perspiration, one would have said that it was he who had confessed and had not obtained absolution.
"Jesús, María, y José!" exclaimed Aunt Isabel, crossing herself to dispel an evil thought, "who understands the girls nowadays?"
CHAPTER XLV
The Hunted
In the dim light shed by the moonbeams sifting through the thick foliage a man wandered through the forest with slow and cautious steps. From time to time, as if to find his way, he whistled a peculiar melody, which was answered in the distance by some one whistling the same air. The man would listen attentively and then make his way in the direction of the distant sound, until at length, after overcoming the thousand obstacles offered by the virgin forest in the night-time, he reached a small open space, which was bathed in the light of the moon in its first quarter. The high, tree-crowned rocks that rose about formed a kind of ruined amphitheater, in the center of which were scattered recently felled trees and charred logs among boulders covered with nature's mantle of verdure.
Scarcely had the unknown arrived when another figure started suddenly from behind a large rock and advanced with drawn revolver. "Who are you?" he asked in Tagalog in an imperious tone, cocking the weapon.
"Is old Pablo among you?" inquired the unknown in an even tone, without answering the question or showing any signs of fear.
"You mean the capitan? Yes, he's here."
"Then tell him that Elias is here looking for him," was the answer of the unknown, who was no other than the mysterious pilot.
"Are you Elias?" asked the other respectfully, as he approached him, not, however, ceasing to cover him with the revolver. "Then come!"
Elias followed him, and they penetrated into a kind of cave sunk down in the depths of the earth. The guide, who seemed to be familiar with the way, warned the pilot when he should descend or turn aside or stoop down, so they were not long in reaching a kind of hall which was poorly lighted by pitch torches and occupied by twelve to fifteen armed men with dirty faces and soiled clothing, some seated and some lying down as they talked fitfully to one another. Resting his arms on a stone that served for a table and gazing thoughtfully at the torches, which gave out so little light for so much smoke, was seen an old, sad-featured man with his head wrapped in a bloody bandage. Did we not know that it was a den of tulisanes we might have said, on reading the look of desperation in the old man's face, that it was the Tower of Hunger on the eve before Ugolino devoured his sons.
Upon the arrival of Elias and his guide the figures partly rose, but at a signal from the latter they settled back again, satisfying themselves with the observation that the newcomer was unarmed. The old man turned his head slowly and saw the quiet figure of Elias, who stood uncovered, gazing at him with sad interest.
"It's you at last," murmured the old man, his gaze lighting up somewhat as he recognized the youth.
"In what condition do I find you!" exclaimed the youth in a suppressed tone, shaking his head.
The old man dropped his head in silence and made a sign to the others, who arose and withdrew, first taking the measure of the pilot's muscles and stature with a glance.
"Yes!" said the old man to Elias as soon as they were alone. "Six months ago when I sheltered you in my house, it was I who pitied you. Now we have changed parts and it is you who pity me. But sit down and tell me how you got here."
"It's fifteen days now since I was told of your misfortune," began the young man slowly in a low voice as he stared at the light. "I started at once and have been seeking you from mountain to mountain. I've traveled over nearly the whole of two provinces."
"In order not to shed innocent blood," continued the old man, "I have had to flee. My enemies were afraid to show themselves. I was confronted merely with some unfortunates who have never done me the least harm."
After a brief pause during which he seemed to be occupied in trying to read the thoughts in the dark countenance of the old man, Elias replied: "I've come to make a proposition to you. Having sought in vain for some survivor of the family that caused the misfortunes of mine, I've decided to leave the province where I live and move toward the North among the independent pagan tribes. Don't you want to abandon the life you have entered upon and come with me? I will be your son, since you have lost your own; I have no family, and in you will find a father."
The old man shook his, head in negation, saying, "When one at my age makes a desperate resolution, it's because there is no other recourse. A man who, like myself, has spent his youth and his mature years toiling for the future of himself and his sons; a man who has been submissive to every wish of his superiors, who has conscientiously performed difficult tasks, enduring all that he might live in peace and quiet--when that man, whose blood time has chilled, renounces all his past and foregoes all his future, even on the very brink of the grave, it is because he has with mature judgment decided that peace does not exist and that it is not the highest good. Why drag out miserable days on foreign soil? I had two sons, a daughter, a home, a fortune, I was esteemed and respected; now I am as a tree shorn of its branches, a wanderer, a fugitive, hunted like a wild beast through the forest, and all for what? Because a man dishonored my daughter, because her brothers called that man's infamy to account, and because that man is set above his fellows with the title of minister of God! In spite of everything, I, her father, I, dishonored in my old age, forgave the injury, for I was indulgent with the passions of youth and the weakness of the flesh, and in the face of irreparable wrong what could I do but hold my peace and save what remained to me? But the culprit, fearful of vengeance sooner or later, sought the destruction of my sons. Do you know what he did? No? You don't know, then, that he pretended that there had been a robbery committed in the convento and that one of my sons figured among the accused? The other could not be included because he was in another place at the time. Do you know what tortures they were subjected to? You know of them, for they are the same in all the towns! I, I saw my son hanging by the hair, I heard his cries, I heard him call upon me, and I, coward and lover of peace, hadn't the courage either to kill or to die! Do you know that the theft was not proved, that it was shown to be a false charge, and that in punishment the curate was transferred to another town, but that my son died as a result of his tortures? The other, the one who was left to me, was not a coward like his father, so our persecutor was still fearful that he would wreak vengeance on him, and, under the pretext of his not having his cedula, which he had not carried with him just at that time, had him arrested by the Civil Guard, mistreated him, enraged and harassed him with insults until he was driven to suicide! And I, I have outlived so much shame; but if I had not the courage of a father to defend my sons, there yet remains to me a heart burning for revenge, and I will have it! The discontented are gathering under my command, my enemies increase my forces, and on the day that I feel myself strong enough I will descend to the lowlands and in flames sate my vengeance and end my own existence. And that day will come or there is no God!"
The old man arose trembling. With fiery look and hollow voice, he added, tearing his long hair, "Curses, curses upon me that I restrained the avenging hands of my sons--I have murdered them! Had I let the guilty perish, had I confided less in the justice of God and men, I should now have my sons--fugitives, perhaps, but I should have them; they would not have died under torture! I was not born to be a father, so I have them not! Curses upon me that I had not learned with my years to know the conditions under which I lived! But in fire and blood by my own death I will avenge them!"
In his paroxysm of grief the unfortunate father tore away the bandage, reopening a wound in his forehead from which gushed a stream of blood.
"I respect your sorrow," said Elias, "and I understand your desire for revenge. I, too, am like you, and yet from fear of injuring the innocent I prefer to forget my misfortunes."
"You can forget because you are young and because you haven't lost a son, your last hope! But I assure you that I shall injure no innocent one. Do you see this wound? Rather than kill a poor cuadrillero, who was doing his duty, I let him inflict it."
"But look," urged Elias, after a moment's silence, "look what a frightful catastrophe you are going to bring down upon our unfortunate people. If you accomplish your revenge by your own hand, your enemies will make terrible reprisals, not against you, not against those who are armed, but against the peaceful, who as usual will be accused--and then the eases of injustice!"
"Let the people learn to defend themselves, let each one defend himself!"
"You know that that is impossible. Sir, I knew you in other days when you were happy; then you gave me good advice, will you now permit me--"
The old man folded his arms in an attitude of attention. "Sir," continued Elias, weighing his words well, "I have had the good fortune to render a service to a young man who is rich, generous, noble, and who desires the welfare of his country. They say that this young man has friends in Madrid--I don't know myself--but I can assure you that he is a friend of the Captain-General's. What do you say that we make him the bearer of the people's complaints, if we interest him in the cause of the unhappy?"
The old man shook his head. "You say that he is rich? The rich think only of increasing their wealth, pride and show blind them, and as they are generally safe, above all when they have powerful friends, none of them troubles himself about the woes of the unfortunate. I know all, because I was rich!"
"But the man of whom I speak is not like the others. He is a son who has been insulted over the memory of his father, and a young man who, as he is soon to have a family, thinks of the future, of a happy future for his children."
"Then he is a man who is going to be happy--our cause is not for happy men."
"But it is for men who have feelings!"
"Perhaps!" replied the old man, seating himself. "Suppose that he agrees to carry our cry even to the Captain-General, suppose that he finds in the Cortes delegates who will plead for us; do you think that we shall get justice?"
"Let us try it before we resort to violent measure," answered Elias. "You must be surprised that I, another unfortunate, young and strong, should propose to you, old and weak, peaceful measures, but it's because I've seen as much misery caused by us as by the tyrants. The defenseless are the ones who pay."
"And if we accomplish nothing?"
"Something we shall accomplish, believe me, for all those who are in power are not unjust. But if we accomplish nothing, if they disregard our entreaties, if man has become deaf to the cry of sorrow from his kind, then I will put myself under your orders!"
The old man embraced the youth enthusiastically. "I accept your proposition, Elias. I know that you will keep your word. You will come to me, and I shall help you to revenge your ancestors, you will help me to revenge my sons, my sons that were like you!"
"In the meantime, sir, you will refrain from violent measures?"
"You will present the complaints of the people, you know them. When shall I know your answer?"
"In four days send a man to the beach at San Diego and I will tell him what I shall have learned from the person in whom I place so much hope. If he accepts, they will give us justice; and if not, I'll be the first to fall in the struggle that we will begin."
"Elias will not die, Elias will be the leader when Capitan Pablo fails, satisfied in his revenge," concluded the old man, as he accompanied the youth out of the cave into the open air.
CHAPTER XLVI
The Cockpit
To keep holy the afternoon of the Sabbath one generally goes to the cockpit in the Philippines, just as to the bull-fights in Spain. Cockfighting, a passion introduced into the country and exploited for a century past, is one of the vices of the people, more widely spread than opium-smoking among the Chinese. There the poor man goes to risk all that he has, desirous of getting rich without work. There the rich man goes to amuse himself, using the money that remains to him from his feasts and his masses of thanksgiving. The fortune that he gambles is his own, the cock is raised with much more care perhaps than his son and successor in the cockpit, so we have nothing to say against it. Since the government permits it and even in a way recommends it, by providing that the spectacle may take place only in the public plazas, on holidays (in order that all may see it and be encouraged by the example?), from the high mass until nightfall (eight hours), let us proceed thither to seek out some of our acquaintances.
The cockpit of San Diego does not differ from those to be found in other towns, except in some details. It consists of three parts, the first of which, the entrance, is a large rectangle some twenty meters long by fourteen wide. On one side is the gateway, generally tended by an old woman whose business it is to collect the sa pintu, or admission fee. Of this contribution, which every one pays, the government receives a part, amounting to some hundreds of thousands of pesos a year. It is said that with this money, with which vice pays its license, magnificent schoolhouses are erected, bridges and roads are constructed, prizes for encouraging agriculture and commerce are distributed: blessed be the vice that produces such good results! In this first enclosure are the vendors of buyos, cigars, sweetmeats, and foodstuffs. There swarm the boys in company with their fathers or uncles, who carefully initiate them into the secrets of life.
This enclosure communicates with another of somewhat larger dimensions,--a kind of foyer where the public gathers while waiting for the combats. There are the greater part of the fighting-cocks tied with cords which are fastened to the ground by means of a piece of bone or hard wood; there are assembled the gamblers, the devotees, those skilled in tying on the gaffs, there they make agreements, they deliberate, they beg for loans, they curse, they swear, they laugh boisterously. That one fondles his chicken, rubbing his hand over its brilliant plumage, this one examines and counts the scales on its legs, they recount the exploits of the champions.
There you will see many with mournful faces carrying by the feet corpses picked of their feathers; the creature that was the favorite for months, petted and cared for day and night, on which were founded such flattering hopes, is now nothing more than a carcass to be sold for a peseta or to be stewed with ginger and eaten that very night. Sic transit gloria mundi! The loser returns to the home where his anxious wife and ragged children await him, without his money or his chicken. Of all that golden dream, of all those vigils during months from the dawn of day to the setting of the sun, of all those fatigues and labors, there results only a peseta, the ashes left from so much smoke.
