In this foyer even the least intelligent takes part in the discussion, while the man of most hasty judgment conscientiously investigates the matter, weighs, examines, extends the wings, feels the muscles of the cocks. Some go very well-dressed, surrounded and followed by the partisans of their champions; others who are dirty and bear the imprint of vice on their squalid features anxiously follow the movements of the rich to note the bets, since the purse may become empty but the passion never satiated. No countenance here but is animated--not here is to be found the indolent, apathetic, silent Filipino--all is movement, passion, eagerness. It may be, one would say, that they have that thirst which is quickened by the water of the swamp.
From this place one passes into the arena, which is known as the Rueda, the wheel. The ground here, surrounded by bamboo-stakes, is usually higher than that in the two other divisions. In the back part, reaching almost to the roof, are tiers of seats for the spectators, or gamblers, since these are the same. During the fights these seats are filled with men and boys who shout, clamor, sweat, quarrel, and blaspheme--fortunately, hardly any women get in this far. In the Rueda are the men of importance, the rich, the famous bettors, the contractor, the referee. On the perfectly leveled ground the cocks fight, and from there Destiny apportions to the families smiles or tears, feast or famine.
At the time of entering we see the gobernadorcillo, Capitan Pablo, Capitan Basilio, and Lucas, the man with the sear on his face who felt so deeply the death of his brother.
Capitan Basilio approaches one of the townsmen and asks, "Do you know which cock Capitan Tiago is going to bring?"
"I don't know, sir. This morning two came, one of them the lásak that whipped the Consul's talisain."
"Do you think that my bulik is a match for it?"
"I should say so! I'll bet my house and my camisa on it!"
At that moment Capitan Tiago arrives, dressed like the heavy gamblers, in a camisa of Canton linen, woolen pantaloons, and a wide straw hat. Behind him come two servants carrying the lásak and a white cock of enormous size.
"Sinang tells me that Maria is improving all the time," says Capitan Basilio.
"She has no more fever but is still very weak."
"Did you lose last night?"
"A little. I hear that you won. I'm going to see if I can't get even here."
"Do you want to fight the lásak?" asks Capitan Basilio, looking at the cock and taking it from the servant. "That depends--if there's a bet."
"How much will you put up?"
"I won't gamble for less than two."
"Have you seen my bulik?" inquires Capitan Basilio, calling to a man who is carrying a small game-cock.
Capitan Tiago examines it and after feeling its weight and studying its scales returns it with the question, "How much will you put up?"
"Whatever you will."
"Two, and five hundred?"
"Three?"
"Three!"
"For the next fight after this!"
The chorus of curious bystanders and the gamblers spread the news that two celebrated cocks will fight, each of which has a history and a well-earned reputation. All wish to see and examine the two celebrities, opinions are offered, prophecies are made.
Meanwhile, the murmur of the voices grows, the confusion increases, the Rueda is broken into, the seats are filled. The skilled attendants carry the two cocks into the arena, a white and a red, already armed but with the gaffs still sheathed. Cries are heard, "On the white!" "On the white!" while some other voice answers, "On the red!" The odds are on the white, he is the favorite; the red is the "outsider," the dejado.
Members of the Civil Guard move about in the crowd. They are not dressed in the uniform of that meritorious corps, but neither are they in civilian costume. Trousers of guingón with a red stripe, a camisa stained blue from the faded blouse, and a service-cap, make up their costume, in keeping with their deportment; they make bets and keep watch, they raise disturbances and talk of keeping the peace.
While the spectators are yelling, waving their hands, flourishing and clinking pieces of silver; while they search in their pockets for the last coin, or, in the lack of such, try to pledge their word, promising to sell the carabao or the next crop, two boys, brothers apparently, follow the bettors with wistful eyes, loiter about, murmur timid words to which no one listens, become more and more gloomy and gaze at one another ill-humoredly and dejectedly. Lucas watches them covertly, smiles malignantly, jingles his silver, passes close to them, and gazing into the Rueda, cries out:
"Fifty, fifty to twenty on the white!"
The two brothers exchange glances.
"I told you," muttered the elder, "that you shouldn't have put up all the money. If you had listened to me we should now have something to bet on the red."
The younger timidly approached Lucas and touched him on the arm.
"Oh, it's you!" exclaimed the latter, turning around with feigned surprise. "Does your brother accept my proposition or do you want to bet?"
"How can we bet when we've lost everything?"
"Then you accept?"
"He doesn't want to! If you would lend us something, now that you say you know us--"
Lucas scratched his head, pulled at his camisa, and replied, "Yes, I know you. You are Tarsilo and Bruno, both young and strong. I know that your brave father died as a result of the hundred lashes a day those soldiers gave him. I know that you don't think of revenging him."
"Don't meddle in our affairs!" broke in Tarsilo, the elder. "That might lead to trouble. If it were not that we have a sister, we should have been hanged long ago."
"Hanged? They only hang a coward, one who has no money or influence. And at all events the mountains are near."
"A hundred to twenty on the white!" cried a passer-by.
"Lend us four pesos, three, two," begged the younger.
"We'll soon pay them back double. The fight is going to commence."
Lucas again scratched his head. "Tush! This money isn't mine. Don Crisostomo has given it to me for those who are willing to serve him. But I see that you're not like your father--he was really brave--let him who is not so not seek amusement!" So saying, he drew away from them a little.
"Let's take him up, what's the difference?" said Bruno. "It's the same to be shot as to be hanged. We poor folks are good for nothing else."
"You're right--but think of our sister!"
Meanwhile, the ring has been cleared and the combat is about to begin. The voices die away as the two starters, with the expert who fastens the gaffs, are left alone in the center. At a signal from the referee, the expert unsheathes the gaffs and the fine blades glitter threateningly.
Sadly and silently the two brothers draw nearer to the ring until their foreheads are pressed against the railing. A man approaches them and calls into their ears, "Pare, a hundred to ten on the white!"
Tarsilo stares at him in a foolish way and responds to Bruno's nudge with a grunt.
The starters hold the cocks with skilful delicacy, taking care not to wound themselves. A solemn silence reigns; the spectators seem to be changed into hideous wax figures. They present one cock to the other, holding his head down so that the other may peck at it and thus irritate him. Then the other is given a like opportunity, for in every duel there must be fair play, whether it is a question of Parisian cocks or Filipino cocks. Afterwards, they hold them up in sight of each other, close together, so that each of the enraged little creatures may see who it is that has pulled out a feather, and with whom he must fight. Their neck-feathers bristle up as they gaze at each other fixedly with flashes of anger darting from their little round eyes. Now the moment has come; the attendants place them on the ground a short distance apart and leave them a clear field.
Slowly they advance, their footfalls are, audible on the hard ground. No one in the crowd speaks, no one breathes. Raising and lowering their heads as if to gauge one another with a look, the two cocks utter sounds of defiance and contempt. Each sees the bright blade throwing out its cold, bluish reflections. The danger animates them and they rush directly toward each other, but a pace apart they check themselves with fixed gaze and bristling plumage. At that moment their little heads are filled with a rush of blood, their anger flashes forth, and they hurl themselves together with instinctive valor. They strike beak to beak, breast to breast, gaff to gaff, wing to wing, but the blows are skilfully parried, only a few feathers fall. Again they size each other up: suddenly the white rises on his wings, brandishing the deadly knife, but the red has bent his legs and lowered his head, so the white smites only the empty air.. Then on touching the ground the white, fearing a blow from behind, turns quickly to face his adversary. The red attacks him furiously, but he defends himself calmly--not undeservedly is he the favorite of the spectators, all of whom tremulously and anxiously follow the fortunes of the fight, only here and there an involuntary cry being heard.
The ground becomes strewn with red and white feathers dyed in blood, but the contest is not for the first blood; the Filipino, carrying out the laws dictated by his government, wishes it to be to the death or until one or the other turns tail and runs. Blood covers the ground, the blows are more numerous, but victory still hangs in the balance. At last, with a supreme effort, the white throws himself forward for a final stroke, fastens his gaff in the wing of the red and catches it between the bones. But the white himself has been wounded in the breast and both are weak and feeble from loss of blood. Breathless, their strength spent, caught one against the other, they remain motionless until the white, with blood pouring from his beak, falls, kicking his death-throes. The red remains at his side with his wing caught, then slowly doubles up his legs and gently closes his eyes.
Then the referee, in accordance with the rule prescribed by the government, declares the red the winner. A savage yell greets the decision, a yell that is heard over the whole town, even and prolonged. He who hears this from afar then knows that the winner is the one against which the odds were placed, or the joy would not be so lasting. The same happens with the nations: when a small one gains a victory over a large one, it is sung and recounted from age to age.
"You see now!" said Bruno dejectedly to his brother, "if you had listened to me we should now have a hundred pesos. You're the cause of our being penniless."
Tarsilo did not answer, but gazed about him as if looking for some one.
"There he is, talking to Pedro," added Bruno. "He's giving him money, lots of money!"
True it was that Lucas was counting silver coins into the hand of Sisa's husband. The two then exchanged some words in secret and separated, apparently satisfied.
"Pedro must have agreed. That's what it is to be decided," sighed Bruno.
Tarsilo remained gloomy and thoughtful, wiping away with the cuff of his camisa the perspiration that ran down his forehead.
"Brother," said Bruno, "I'm going to accept, if you don't decide. The law continues, the lásak must win and we ought not to lose any chance. I want to bet on the next fight. What's the difference? We'll revenge our father."
"Wait!" said Tarsilo, as he gazed at him fixedly, eye to eye, while both turned pale. "I'll go with you, you're right. We'll revenge our father." Still, he hesitated, and again wiped away the perspiration.
"What's stopping you?" asked Bruno impatiently.
"Do you know what fight comes next? Is it worth while?"
"If you think that way, no! Haven't you heard? The bulik of Capitan Basilio's against Capitan Tiago's lásak. According to the law the lásak must win."
"Ah, the lásak! I'd bet on it, too. But let's be sure first."
Bruno made a sign of impatience, but followed his brother, who examined the cock, studied it, meditated and reflected, asked some questions. The poor fellow was in doubt. Bruno gazed at him with nervous anger.
"But don't you see that wide scale he has by the side of his spur? Don't you see those feet? What more do you want? Look at those legs, spread out his wings! And this split scale above this wide one, and this double one?"
Tarsilo did not hear him, but went on examining the cock. The clinking of gold and silver came to his ears. "Now let's look at the bulik," he said in a thick voice.
Bruno stamped on the ground and gnashed his teeth, but obeyed. They approached another group where a cock was being prepared for the ring. A gaff was selected, red silk thread for tying it on was waxed and rubbed thoroughly. Tarsilo took in the creature with a gloomily impressive gaze, as if he were not looking at the bird so much as at something in the future. He rubbed his hand across his forehead and said to his brother in a stifled voice, "Are you ready?"
"I? Long ago! Without looking at them!"
"But, our poor sister--"
"Abá! Haven't they told you that Don Crisostomo is the leader? Didn't you see him walking with the Captain-General? What risk do we run?"
"And if we get killed?"
"What's the difference? Our father was flogged to death!"
"You're right!"
The brothers now sought for Lucas in the different groups. As soon as they saw him Tarsilo stopped. "No! Let's get out of here! We're going to ruin ourselves!" he exclaimed.
"Go on if you want to! I'm going to accept!"
"Bruno!"
Unfortunately, a man approached them, saying, "Are you betting? I'm for the bulik!" The brothers did not answer.
"I'll give odds!"
"How much?" asked Bruno.
The man began to count out his pesos. Bruno watched him breathlessly.
"I have two hundred. Fifty to forty!"
"No," said Bruno resolutely. "Put--"
"All right! Fifty to thirty!"
"Double it if you want to."
"All right. The bulik belongs to my protector and I've just won. A hundred to sixty!"
"Taken! Wait till I get the money."
"But I'll hold the stakes," said the other, not confiding much in Bruno's looks.
"It's all the same to me," answered the latter, trusting to his fists. Then turning to his brother he added, "Even if you do keep out, I'm going in."
Tarsilo reflected: he loved his brother and liked the sport, and, unable to desert him, he murmured, "Let it go."
They made their way to Lucas, who, on seeing them approach, smiled.
"Sir!" called Tarsilo.
"What's up?"
"How much will you give us?" asked the two brothers together.
"I've already told you. If you will undertake to get others for the purpose of making a surprise-attack on the barracks, I'll give each of you thirty pesos and ten pesos for each companion you bring. If all goes well, each one will receive a hundred pesos and you double that amount. Don Crisostomo is rich."
"Accepted!" exclaimed Bruno. "Let's have the money."
"I knew you were brave, as your father was! Come, so that those fellows who killed him may not overhear us," said Lucas, indicating the civil-guards.
Taking them into a corner, he explained to them while he was counting out the money, "Tomorrow Don Crisostomo will get back with the arms. Day after tomorrow, about eight o'clock at night, go to the cemetery and I'll let you know the final arrangements. You have time to look for companions."
After they had left him the two brothers seemed to have changed parts--Tarsilo was calm, while Bruno was uneasy.
CHAPTER XLVII
The Two Señoras
While Capitan Tiago was gambling on his lásak, Doña Victorina was taking a walk through the town for the purpose of observing how the indolent Indians kept their houses and fields. She was dressed as elegantly as possible with all her ribbons and flowers over her silk gown, in order to impress the provincials and make them realize what a distance intervened between them and her sacred person. Giving her arm to her lame husband, she strutted along the streets amid the wonder and stupefaction of the natives. Her cousin Linares had remained in the house.
"What ugly shacks these Indians have!" she began with a grimace. "I don't see how they can live in them--one must have to be an Indian! And how rude they are and how proud! They don't take off their hats when they meet us! Hit them over the head as the curates and the officers of the Civil Guard do--teach them politeness!"
"And if they hit me back?" asked Dr. De Espadaña.
"That's what you're a man for!"
"B-but, I'm l-lame!"
Doña Victorina was falling into a bad humor. The streets were unpaved and the train of her gown was covered with dust. Besides, they had met a number of young women, who, in passing them, had dropped their eyes and had not admired her rich costume as they should have done. Sinang's cochero, who was driving Sinang and her cousin in an elegant carriage, had the impudence to yell "Tabi!" in such a commanding tone that she had to jump out of the way, and could only protest: "Look at that brute of a cochero! I'm going to tell his master to train his servants better."
"Let's go back to the house," she commanded to her husband, who, fearing a storm, wheeled on his crutch in obedience to her mandate.
They met and exchanged greetings with the alferez. This increased Doña Victorina's ill humor, for the officer not only did not proffer any compliment on her costume, but even seemed to stare at it in a mocking way.
"You ought not to shake hands with a mere alferez," she said to her husband as the soldier left them. "He scarcely touched his helmet while you took off your hat. You don't know how to maintain your rank!"
"He's the b-boss here!"
"What do we care for that? We are Indians, perhaps?"
"You're right," he assented, not caring to quarrel. They passed in front of the officer's dwelling. Doña Consolacion was at the window, as usual, dressed in flannel and smoking her cigar. As the house was low, the two señoras measured one another with looks; Doña Victorina stared while the Muse of the Civil Guard examined her from head to foot, and then, sticking out her lower lip, turned her head away and spat on the ground. This used up the last of Doña Victorina's patience. Leaving her husband without support, she planted herself in front of the alfereza, trembling with anger from head to foot and unable to speak. Doña Consolacion slowly turned her head, calmly looked her over again, and once more spat, this time with greater disdain.
"What's the matter with you, Doña?" she asked.
"Can you tell me, señora, why you look at me so? Are you envious?" Doña Victorina was at length able to articulate.
"I, envious of you, I, of you?" drawled the Muse. "Yes, I envy you those frizzes!"
"Come, woman!" pleaded the doctor. "D-don't t-take any n-notice!"
"Let me teach this shameless slattern a lesson," replied his wife, giving him such a shove that he nearly kissed the ground. Then she again turned to Doña Consolacion.
"Remember who you're dealing with!" she exclaimed. "Don't think that I'm a provincial or a soldier's querida! In my house in Manila the alfereces don't eater, they wait at the door."
"Oho, Excelentísima Señora! Alfereces don't enter, but cripples do--like that one--ha, ha, ha!"
Had it not been for the rouge, Doña Victorian would have been seen to blush. She tried to get to her antagonist, but the sentinel stopped her. In the meantime the street was filling up with a curious crowd.
"Listen, I lower myself talking to you--people of quality--Don't you want to wash my clothes? I'll pay you well! Do you think that I don't know that you were a washerwoman?"
Doña Consolacion straightened up furiously; the remark about washing hurt her. "Do you think that we don't know who you are and what class of people you belong with? Get out, my husband has already told me! Señora, I at least have never belonged to more than one, but you? One must be dying of hunger to take the leavings, the mop of the whole world!"
This shot found its mark with Doña Victorina. She rolled up her sleeves, clenched her fists, and gritted her teeth. "Come down, old sow!" she cried. "I'm going to smash that dirty mouth of yours! Querida of a battalion, filthy hag!"
The Muse immediately disappeared from the window and was soon seen running down the stairs flourishing her husband's whip.
Don Tiburcio interposed himself supplicatingly, but they would have come to blows had not the alferez arrived on the scene.
"Ladies! Don Tiburcio!"
"Train your woman better, buy her some decent clothes, and if you haven't any money left, rob the people--that's what you've got soldiers for!" yelled Doña Victorina.
"Here I am, señora! Why doesn't your Excellency smash my mouth? You're only tongue and spittle, Doña Excelencia!"
"Señora!" cried the alferez furiously to Doña Victorina, "be thankful that I remember that you're a woman or else I'd kick you to pieces--frizzes, ribbons, and all!"
"S-señor Alferez!"
"Get out, you quack! You don't wear the pants!"
The women brought into play words and gestures, insults and abuse, dragging out all the evil that was stored in the recesses of their minds. Since all four talked at once and said so many things that might hurt the prestige of certain classes by the truths that were brought to light, we forbear from recording what they said. The curious spectators, while they may not have understood all that was said, got not a little entertainment out of the scene and hoped that the affair would come to blows. Unfortunately for them, the curate came along and restored order.
"Señores! Señoras! What a shame! Señor Alferez!"
"What are you doing here, you hypocrite, Carlist!"
"Don Tiburcio, take your wife away! Señora, hold your tongue!"
"Say that to these robbers of the poor!"
Little by little the lexicon of epithets was exhausted, the review of shamelessness of the two couples completed, and with threats and insults they gradually drew away from one another. Fray Salvi moved from one group to the other, giving animation to the scene. Would that our friend the correspondent had been present!
"This very day we'll go to Manila and see the Captain-General!" declared the raging Doña Victorina to her husband. "You're not a man! It's a waste of money to buy trousers for you!"
"B-but, woman, the g-guards? I'm l-lame!"
"You must challenge him for pistol or sword, or--or--" Doña Victorina stared fixedly at his false teeth.
"My d-dear, I've never had hold of a--"
But she did not let him finish. With a majestic sweep of her hand she snatched out his false teeth and trampled them in the street.
Thus, he half-crying and she breathing fire, they reached the house. Linares was talking with Maria Clara, Sinang, and Victoria, and as he had heard nothing of the quarrel, became rather uneasy at sight of his cousins. Maria Clara, lying in an easy-chair among pillows and wraps, was greatly surprised to see the new physiognomy of her doctor.
"Cousin," began Doña Victorina, "you must challenge the alferez right away, or--"
"Why?" asked the startled Linares.
"You challenge him right now or else I'll tell everybody here who you are."
"But, Doña Victorina!"
The three girls exchanged glances.
"You'll see! The alferez has insulted us and said that you are what you are! His old hag came down with a whip and he, this thing here, permitted the insult--a man!"
"Abá!" exclaimed Sinang, "they're had a fight and we didn't see it!"
"The alferez smashed the doctor's teeth," observed Victoria.
"This very day we go to Manila. You, you stay here to challenge him or else I'll tell Don Santiago that all we're told him is a lie, I'll tell him--"
"But, Doña Victorina, Doña Victorina," interrupted the now pallid Linares, going up to her, "be calm, don't call up--" Then he added in a whisper, "Don't be imprudent, especially just now."
At that moment Capitan Tiago came in from the cockpit, sad and sighing; he had lost his lásak. But Doña Victorina left him no time to grieve. In a few words but with no lack of strong language she related what had happened, trying of course to put herself in the best light possible.
"Linares is going to challenge him, do you hear? If he doesn't, don't let him marry your daughter, don't you permit it! If he hasn't any courage, he doesn't deserve Clarita!"
"So you're going to marry this gentleman?" asked Sinang, but her merry eyes filled with tears. "I knew that you were prudent but not that you were fickle."
Pale as wax, Maria Clara partly rose and stared with frightened eyes at her father, at Doña Victorina, at Linares. The latter blushed, Capitan Tiago dropped his eyes, while the señora went on:
"Clarita, bear this in mind: never marry a man that doesn't wear trousers. You expose yourself to insults, even from the dogs!"
The girl did not answer her, but turned to her friends and said, "Help me to my room, I can't walk alone."
By their aid she rose, and with her waist encircled by the round arms of her friends, resting her marble-like head on the shoulder of the beautiful Victoria, she went to her chamber.
That same night the married couple gathered their effects together and presented Capitan Tiago with a bill which amounted to several thousand pesos. Very early the following day they left for Manila in his carriage, committing to the bashful Linares the office of avenger.
CHAPTER XLVIII
The Enigma
Volverán las oscuras golondrinas.
BECQUER.
As Lucas had foretold, Ibarra arrived on the following day. His first visit was to the family of Capitan Tiago for the purpose of seeing Maria Clara and informing her that his Grace had reconciled him with religion, and that he brought to the curate a letter of recommendation in the handwriting of the Archbishop himself. Aunt Isabel was not a little rejoiced at this, for she liked the young man and did not look favorably on the marriage of her niece with Linares. Capitan Tiago was not at home.
"Come in," said the aunt in her broken Spanish. "Maria, Don Crisostomo is once more in the favor of God. The Archbishop has discommunicated him."
But the youth was unable to advance, the smile froze on his lips, words failed him. Standing on the balcony at the side of Maria Clara was Linares, arranging bouquets of flowers and leaves. Roses and sampaguitas were scattered about on the floor. Reclining in a big chair, pale, with a sad and pensive air, Maria Clara toyed with an ivory fan which was not whiter than her shapely fingers.
At the appearance of Ibarra, Linares turned pale and Maria Clara's cheeks flushed crimson. She tried to rise, but strength failed her, so she dropped her eyes and let the fan fall. An embarrassed silence prevailed for a few moments. Ibarra was then able to move forward and murmur tremblingly, "I've just got back and have come immediately to see you. I find you better than I had thought I should."
The girl seemed to have been stricken dumb; she neither said anything nor raised her eyes.
Ibarra looked Linares over from head to foot with a stare which the bashful youth bore haughtily.
"Well, I see that my arrival was unexpected," said Ibarra slowly. "Maria, pardon me that I didn't have myself announced. At some other time I'll be able to make explanations to you about my conduct. We'll still see one another surely."
These last words were accompanied by a look at Linares. The girl raised toward him her lovely eyes, full of purity and sadness. They were so beseeching and eloquent that Ibarra stopped in confusion.
"May I come tomorrow?"
"You know that for my part you are always welcome," she answered faintly.
Ibarra withdrew in apparent calm, but with a tempest in his head and ice in his heart. What he had just seen and felt was incomprehensible to him: was it doubt, dislike, or faithlessness?
"Oh, only a woman after all!" he murmured.
Taking no note of where he was going, he reached the spot where the schoolhouse was under construction. The work was well advanced, Ñor Juan with his mile and plumb-bob coming and going among the numerous laborers. Upon catching sight of Ibarra he ran to meet him.
"Don Crisostomo, at last you've come! We've all been waiting for you. Look at the walls, they're already more than a meter high and within two days they'll be up to the height of a man. I've put in only the strongest and most durable woods--molave, dungon, ipil, langil--and sent for the finest--tindalo, malatapay, pino, and narra--for the finishings. Do you want to look at the foundations?"
The workmen saluted Ibarra respectfully, while Ñor Juan made voluble explanations. "Here is the piping that I have taken the liberty to add," he said. "These subterranean conduits lead to a sort of cesspool, thirty yards away. It will help fertilize the garden. There was nothing of that in the plan. Does it displease you?"
"Quite the contrary, I approve what you've done and congratulate you. You are a real architect. From whom did you learn the business?"
"From myself, sir," replied the old man modestly.
"Oh, before I forget about it--tell those who may have scruples, if perhaps there is any one who fears to speak to me, that I'm no longer excommunicated. The Archbishop invited me to dinner."
"Abá, sir, we don't pay any attention to excommunications! All of us are excommunicated. Padre Damaso himself is and yet he stays fat."
"How's that?"
"It's true, sir, for a year ago he caned the coadjutor, who is just as much a sacred person as he is. Who pays any attention to excommunications, sir?"
Among the laborers Ibarra caught sight of Elias, who, as he saluted him along with the others, gave him to understand by a look that he had something to say to him.
"Ñor Juan," said Ibarra, "will you bring me your list of the laborers?"
Ñor Juan disappeared, and Ibarra approached Elias, who was by himself, lifting a heavy stone into a cart.
"If you can grant me a few hours' conversation, sir, walk down to the shore of the lake this evening and get into my banka." The youth nodded, and Elias moved away.
Ñor Juan now brought the list, but Ibarra scanned it in vain; the name of Elias did not appear on it!
CHAPTER XLIX
The Voice of the Hunted
As the sun was sinking below the horizon Ibarra stepped into Elias's banka at the shore of the lake. The youth looked out of humor.
"Pardon me, sir," said Elias sadly, on seeing him, "that I have been so bold as to make this appointment. I wanted to talk to you freely and so I chose this means, for here we won't have any listeners. We can return within an hour."
"You're wrong, friend," answered Ibarra with a forced smile. "You'll have to take me to that town whose belfry we see from here. A mischance forces me to this."
"A mischance?"
"Yes. On my way here I met the alferez and he forced his company on me. I thought of you and remembered that he knows you, so to get away from him I told him that I was going to that town. I'll have to stay there all day, since he will look for me tomorrow afternoon."
"I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but you might simply have invited him to accompany you," answered Elias naturally.
"What about you?"
"He wouldn't have recognized me, since the only time he ever saw me he wasn't in a position to take careful note of my appearance."
"I'm in bad luck," sighed Ibarra, thinking of Maria Clara. "What did you have to tell me?"
Elias looked about him. They were already at a distance from the shore, the sun had set, and as in these latitudes there is scarcely any twilight, the shades were lengthening, bringing into view the bright disk of the full moon.
"Sir," replied Elias gravely, "I am the bearer of the wishes of many unfortunates."
"Unfortunates? What do you mean?"
In a few words Elias recounted his conversation with the leader of the tulisanes, omitting the latter's doubts and threats. Ibarra listened attentively and was the first to break the long silence that reigned after he had finished his story.
"So they want--"
"Radical reforms in the armed forces, in the priesthood, and in the administration of justice; that is to say, they ask for paternal treatment from the government."
"Reforms? In what sense?"
"For example, more respect for a man's dignity, more security for the individual, less force in the armed forces, fewer privileges for that corps which so easily abuses what it has."
"Elias," answered the youth, "I don't know who you are, but I suspect that you are not a man of the people; you think and act so differently from others. You will understand me if I tell you that, however imperfect the condition of affairs may be now, it would be more so if it were changed. I might be able to get the friends that I have in Madrid to talk, by paying them; I might even be able to see the Captain-General; but neither would the former accomplish anything nor has the latter sufficient power to introduce so many novelties. Nor would I ever take a single step in that direction, for the reason that, while I fully understand that it is true that these corporations have their faults, they are necessary at this time. They are what is known as a necessary evil."
Greatly surprised, Elias raised his head and looked at him in astonishment. "Do you, then, also believe in a necessary evil, sir?" he asked in a voice that trembled slightly. "Do you believe that in order to do good it is necessary to do evil?"
"No, I believe in it as in a violent remedy that we make use of when we wish to cure a disease. Now then, the country is an organism suffering from a chronic malady, and in order to cure it, the government sees the necessity of employing such means, harsh and violent if you wish, but useful and necessary."
"He is a bad doctor, sir, who seeks only to destroy or stifle the symptoms without an effort to examine into the origin of the malady, or, when knowing it, fears to attack it. The Civil Guard has only this purpose: the repression of crime by means of terror and force, a purpose that it does not fulfil or accomplishes only incidentally. You must take into account the truth that society can be severe with individuals only when it has provided them with the means necessary for their moral perfection. In our country, where there is no society, since there is no unity between the people and the government, the latter should be indulgent, not only because indulgence is necessary but also because the individual, abandoned and uncared for by it, has less responsibility, for the very reason that he has received less guidance. Besides, following out your comparison, the treatment that is applied to the ills of the country is so destructive that it is felt only in the sound parts of the organism, whose vitality is thus weakened and made receptive of evil. Would it not be more rational to strengthen the diseased parts of the organism and lessen the violence of the remedy a little?"
"To weaken the Civil Guard would be to endanger the security of the towns."
"The security of the towns!" exclaimed Elias bitterly. "It will soon be fifteen years since the towns have had their Civil Guard, and look: still we have tulisanes, still we hear that they sack towns, that they infest the highways. Robberies continue and the perpetrators are not hunted down; crime flourishes, and the real criminal goes scot-free, but not so the peaceful inhabitant of the town. Ask any honorable citizen if he looks upon this institution as a benefit, a protection on the part of the government, and not as an imposition, a despotism whose outrageous acts do more damage than the violent deeds of criminals. These latter are indeed serious, but they are rare, and against them one has the right to defend himself, but against the molestations of legal force he is not even allowed a protest, and if they are not serious they are nevertheless continued and sanctioned. What effect does this institution produce among our people? It paralyzes communication because all are afraid of being abused on trifling pretexts. It pays more attention to formalities than to the real nature of things, which is the first symptom of incapacity. Because one has forgotten his cedula he must be manacled and knocked about, regardless of the fact that he may be a decent and respectable citizen. The superiors hold it their first duty to make people salute them, either willingly or forcibly, even in the darkness of the night, and their inferiors imitate them by mistreating and robbing the country folk, nor are pretexts lacking to this end. Sanctity of the home does not exist; not long ago in Kalamba they entered, by forcing their way through the windows, the house of a peaceful inhabitant to whom their chief owed money and favors. There is no personal security; when they need to have their barracks or houses cleaned they go out and arrest any one who does not resist them, in order to make him work the whole day. Do you care to hear more? During these holidays gambling, which is prohibited by law, has gone on while they forcibly broke up the celebrations permitted by the authorities. You saw what the people thought about these things; what have they got by repressing their anger and hoping for human justice? Ah, sir, if that is what you call keeping the peace--"
"I agree with you that there are evils," replied Ibarra, "but let us bear with those evils on account of the benefits that accompany them. This institution may be imperfect, but, believe me, by the fear that it inspires it keeps the number of criminals from increasing."
"Say rather that by this fear the number is increased," corrected Elias. "Before the creation of this corps almost all the evil-doers, with the exception of a very few, were criminals from hunger. They plundered and robbed in order to live, but when their time of want was passed, they again left the highways clear. Sufficient to put them to flight were the poor, but brave cuadrilleros, they who have been so calumniated by the writers about our country, who have for a right, death, for duty, fighting, and for reward, jests. Now there are tulisanes who are such for life. A single fault, a crime inhumanly punished, resistance against the outrages of this power, fear of atrocious tortures, east them out forever from society and condemn them to slay or be slain. The terrorism of the Civil Guard closes against them the doors of repentance, and as outlaws they fight to defend themselves in the mountains better than the soldiers at whom they laugh. The result is that we are unable to put an end to the evil that we have created. Remember what the prudence of the Captain-General de la Torre accomplished. The amnesty granted by him to those unhappy people has proved that in those mountains there still beat the hearts of men and that they only wait for pardon. Terrorism is useful when the people are slaves, when the mountains afford no hiding-places, when power places a sentinel behind every tree, and when the body of the slave contains nothing more than a stomach and intestines. But when in desperation he fights for his life, feeling his arm strong, his heart throb, his whole being fill with hate, how can terrorism hope to extinguish the flame to which it is only adding fuel?"
"I am perplexed, Elias, to hear you talk thus, and I should almost believe that you were right had I not my own convictions. But note this fact--and don't be offended, for I consider you an exception--look who the men are that ask for these reforms" nearly all criminals or on the way to be such!"
"Criminals now, or future criminals; but why are they such? Because their peace has been disturbed, their happiness destroyed, their dearest affections wounded, and when they have asked justice for protection, they have become convinced that they can expect it only from themselves. But you are mistaken, sir, if you think that only the criminals ask for justice. Go from town to town, from house to house, listen to the secret sighings in the bosoms of the families, and you will be convinced that the evils which the Civil Guard corrects are the same as, if not less than, those it causes all the time. Should we decide from this that all the people are criminals? If so, then why defend some from the others, why not destroy them all?"
"Some error exists here which I do not see just now some fallacy in the theory to invalidate the practise, for in Spain, the mother country, this corps is displaying, and has ever displayed, great usefulness."
"I don't doubt it. Perhaps there, it is better organized, the men of better grade, perhaps also Spain needs it while the Philippines does not. Our customs, our mode of life, which are always invoked when there is a desire to deny us some right, are entirely overlooked when the desire is to impose something upon us. And tell me, sir, why have not the other nations, which from their nearness to Spain must be more like her than the Philippines is, adopted this institution? Is it because of this that they still have fewer robberies on their railway trains, fewer riots, fewer murders, and fewer assassinations in their great capitals?"
Ibarra bowed his head in deep thought, raising it after a few moments to reply: "This question, my friend, calls for serious study. If my inquiries convince me that these complaints are well founded I will write to my friends in Madrid, since we have no representatives. Meanwhile, believe me that the government needs a corps with strength enough to make itself respected and to enforce its authority."
"Yes, sir, when the government is at war with the country. But for the welfare of the government itself we must not have the people think that they are in opposition to authority. Rather, if such were true, if we prefer force to prestige, we ought to take care to whom we grant this unlimited power, this authority. So much power in the hands of men, ignorant men filled with passions, without moral training, of untried principles, is a weapon in the hands of a madman in a defenseless multitude. I concede and wish to believe with you that the government needs this weapon, but then let it choose this weapon carefully, let it select the most worthy instruments, and since it prefers to take upon itself authority, rather than have the people grant it, at least let it be seen that it knows how to exercise it."
Elias spoke passionately, enthusiastically, in vibrating tones; his eyes flashed. A solemn pause followed. The banka, unimpelled by the paddle, seemed to stand still on the water. The moon shone majestically in a sapphire sky and a few lights glimmered on the distant shore.
"What more do they ask for?" inquired Ibarra.
"Reform in the priesthood," answered Elias in a sad and discouraged tone. "These unfortunates ask for more protection against--"
"Against the religious orders?"
"Against their oppressors, sir."
"Has the Philippines forgotten what she owes to those orders? Has she forgotten the immense debt of gratitude that is due from her to those who snatched her from error to give her the true faith, to those who have protected her against the tyrannical acts of the civil power? This is the evil result of not knowing the history of our native land!"
The surprised Elias could hardly credit what he heard. "Sir," he replied in a grave tone, "you accuse these people of ingratitude; let me, one of the people who suffer, defend them. Favors rendered, in order to have any claims to recognition, must be disinterested. Let us pass over its missionary work, the much-invoked Christian charity; let us brush history aside and not ask what Spain has done with the Jewish people, who gave all Europe a Book, a Religion, and a God; what she has done with the Arabic people, who gave her culture, who were tolerant with her religious beliefs, and who awoke her lethargic national spirit, so nearly destroyed during the Roman and Gothic dominations. You say that she snatched us from error and gave us the true faith: do you call faith these outward forms, do you call religion this traffic in girdles and scapularies, truth these miracles and wonderful tales that we hear daily? Is this the law of Jesus Christ? For this it was hardly necessary that a God should allow Himself to be crucified or that we should be obliged to show eternal gratitude. Superstition existed long before--it was only necessary to systematize it and raise the price of its merchandise!
"You will tell me that however imperfect our religion may be at present, it is preferable to what we had before. I believe that, too, and would agree with you in saying so, but the cost is too great, since for it we have given up our nationality, our independence. For it we have given over to its priests our best towns, our fields, and still give up our savings by the purchase of religious objects. An article of foreign manufacture has been introduced among us, we have paid well for it, and we are even.
"If you mean the protection that they afforded us against the encomenderos, I might answer that through them we fell under the power of the encomenderos. But no, I realize that a true faith and a sincere love for humanity guided the first missionaries to our shores; I realize the debt of gratitude we owe to those noble hearts; I know that at that time Spain abounded in heroes of all kinds, in religious as well as in political affairs, in civil and in military life. But because the forefathers were virtuous, should we consent to the abuses of their degenerate descendants? Because they have rendered us great service, should we be to blame for preventing them from doing us wrong? The country does not ask for their expulsion but only for reforms required by the changed circumstances and new needs."
"I love our native land as well as you can, Elias; I understand something of what it desires, and I have listened with attention to all you have said. But, after all, my friend, I believe that we are looking at things through rather impassioned eyes. Here, less than in other parts, do I see the necessity for reforms."
"Is it possible, sir," asked Elias, extending his arms in a gesture of despair, "that you do not see the necessity for reforms, you, after the misfortunes of your family?"
"Ah, I forget myself and my own troubles in the presence of the security of the Philippines, in the presence of the interests of Spain!" interrupted Ibarra warmly. "To preserve the Philippines it is meet that the friars continue as they are. On the union with Spain depends the welfare of our country."
When Ibarra had ceased Elias still sat in an attitude of attention with a sad countenance and eyes that had lost their luster. "The missionaries conquered the country, it is true," he replied, "but do you believe that by the friars the Philippines will be preserved?"
"Yes, by them alone. Such is the belief of all who have written about the country."
"Oh!" exclaimed Elias dejectedly, throwing the paddle clown in the banka, "I did not believe that you would have so poor an idea of the government and of the country. Why don't you condemn both? What would you say of the members of a family that dwells in peace only through the intervention of an outsider: a country that is obedient because it is deceived; a government that commands be, cause it avails itself of fraud, a government that does not know how to make itself loved or respected for its own sake? Pardon me, sir, but I believe that our government is stupid and is working its own ruin when it rejoices that such is the belief. I thank you for your kindness, where do you wish me to take you now?"
"No," replied Ibarra, "let us talk; it is necessary to see who is right on such an important subject."
"Pardon me, sir," replied Elias, shaking his head, "but I haven't the eloquence to convince you. Even though I have had some education I am still an Indian, my way of life seems to you a precarious one, and my words will always seem to you suspicious. Those who have given voice to the opposite opinion are Spaniards, and as such, even though they may speak idly and foolishly, their tones, their titles, and their origin make their words sacred and give them such authority that I have desisted forever from arguing against them. Moreover, when I see that you, who love your country, you, whose father sleeps beneath these quiet waters, you, who have seen yourself attacked, insulted, and persecuted, hold such opinions in spite of all these things, and in spite of your knowledge, I begin to doubt my own convictions and to admit the possibility that the people may be mistaken. I'll have to tell those unfortunates who have put their trust in men that they must place it in God and their own strength. Again I thank you--tell me where I shall take you."
"Elias, your bitter words touch my heart and make me also doubt. What do you want? I was not brought up among the people, so I am perhaps ignorant of their needs. I spent my childhood in the Jesuit college, I grew up in Europe, I have been molded by books, learning only what men have been able to bring to light. What remains among the shadows, what the writers do not tell, that I am ignorant of. Yet I love our country as you do, not only because it is the duty of every man to love the country to which he owes his existence and to which he will no doubt owe his final rest, not only because my father so taught me, but also because my mother was an Indian, because my fondest recollections cluster around my country, and I love it also because to it I owe and shall ever owe my happiness!"
"And I, because to it I owe my misfortunes," muttered Elias.
"Yes, my friend, I know that you suffer, that you are unfortunate, and that those facts make you look into the future darkly and influence your way of thinking, so I am somewhat forearmed against your complaints. If I could understand your motives, something of your past--"
"My misfortunes had another source. If I thought that the story of them would be of any use, I would relate it to you, since, apart from the fact that I make no secret of it, it is quite well known to many."
"Perhaps on hearing it I might correct my opinions. You know that I do not trust much to theories, preferring rather to be guided by facts."
Elias remained thoughtful for a few moments. "If that is the case, sir, I will tell you my story briefly."
CHAPTER L
Elias's Story
"Some sixty years ago my grandfather dwelt in Manila, being employed as a bookkeeper in a Spanish commercial house. He was then very young, was married, and had a son. One night from some unknown cause the warehouse burned down. The fire was communicated to the dwelling of his employer and from there to many other buildings. The losses were great, a scapegoat was sought, and the merchant accused my grandfather. In vain he protested his innocence, but he was poor and unable to pay the great lawyers, so he was condemned to be flogged publicly and paraded through the streets of Manila. Not so very long since they still used the infamous method of punishment which the people call the 'caballo y vaca,' and which is a thousand times more dreadful than death itself. Abandoned by all except his young wife, my grandfather saw himself tied to a horse, followed by an unfeeling crowd, and whipped on every street-corner in the sight of men, his brothers, and in the neighborhood of numerous temples of a God of peace. When the wretch, now forever disgraced, had satisfied the vengeance of man with his blood, his tortures, and his cries, he had to be taken off the horse, for he had become unconscious. Would to God that he had died! But by one of those refinements of cruelty he was given his liberty. His wife, pregnant at the time, vainly begged from door to door for work or alms in order to care for her sick husband and their poor son, but who would trust the wife of an incendiary and a disgraced man? The wife, then, had to become a prostitute!"
Ibarra rose in his seat.
"Oh, don't get excited! Prostitution was not now a dishonor for her or a disgrace to her husband; for them honor and shame no longer existed. The husband recovered from his wounds and came with his wife and child to hide himself in the mountains of this province. Here they lived several months, miserable, alone, hated and shunned by all. The wife gave birth to a sickly child, which fortunately died. Unable to endure such misery and being less courageous than his wife, my grandfather, in despair at seeing his sick wife deprived of all care and assistance, hanged himself. His corpse rotted in sight of the son, who was scarcely able to care for his sick mother, and the stench from it led to their discovery. Her husband's death was attributed to her, for of what is the wife of a wretch, a woman who has been a prostitute besides, not believed to be capable? If she swears, they call her a perjurer; if she weeps, they say that she is acting; and that she blasphemes when she calls on God. Nevertheless, they had pity on her condition and waited for the birth of another child before they flogged her. You know how the friars spread the belief that the Indians can only be managed by blows: read what Padre Gaspar de San Agustin says!
"A woman thus condemned will curse the day on which her child is born, and this, besides prolonging her torture, violates every maternal sentiment. Unfortunately, she brought forth a healthy child. Two months afterwards, the sentence was executed to the great satisfaction of the men who thought that thus they were performing their duty. Not being at peace in these mountains, she then fled with her two sons to a neighboring province, where they lived like wild beasts, hating and hated. The elder of the two boys still remembered, even amid so much misery, the happiness of his infancy, so he became a tulisan as soon as he found himself strong enough. Before long the bloody name of Balat spread from province to province, a terror to the people, because in his revenge he did everything with blood and fire. The younger, who was by nature kind-hearted, resigned himself to his shameful fate along with his mother, and they lived on what the woods afforded, clothing themselves in the cast-off rags of travelers. She had lost her name, being known only as the convict, the prostitute, the scourged. He was known as the son of his mother only, because the gentleness of his disposition led every one to believe that he was not the son of the incendiary and because any doubt as to the morality of the Indians can be held reasonable.
"At last, one day the notorious Balat fell into the clutches of the authorities, who exacted of him a strict accounting for his crimes, and of his mother for having done nothing to rear him properly. One morning the younger brother went to look for his mother, who had gone into the woods to gather mushrooms and had not returned. He found her stretched out on the ground under a cotton-tree beside the highway, her face turned toward the sky, her eyes fixed and staring, her clenched hands buried in the blood-stained earth. Some impulse moved him to look up in the direction toward which the eyes of the dead woman were staring, and he saw hanging from a branch a basket and in the basket the gory head of his brother!"
"My God!" ejaculated Ibarra.
"That might have been the exclamation of my father," continued Elias coldly. "The body of the brigand had been cut up and the trunk buried, but his limbs were distributed and hung up in different towns. If ever you go from Kalamba to Santo Tomas you will still see a withered lomboy-tree where one of my uncle's legs hung rotting--nature has blasted the tree so that it no longer grows or bears fruit. The same was done with the other limbs, but the head, as the best part of the person and the portion most easily recognizable, was hung up in front of his mother's hut!"
Ibarra bowed his head.
"The boy fled like one accursed," Elias went on. "He fled from town to town by mountain and valley. When he thought that he had reached a place where he was not known, he hired himself out as a laborer in the house of a rich man in the province of Tayabas. His activity and the gentleness of his character gained him the good-will of all who did not know his past, and by his thrift and economy he succeeded in accumulating a little capital. He was still young, he thought his sorrows buried in the past, and he dreamed of a happy future. His pleasant appearance, his youth, and his somewhat unfortunate condition won him the love of a young woman of the town, but he dared not ask for her hand from fear that his past might become known. But love is stronger than anything else and they wandered from the straight path, so, to save the woman's honor, he risked everything by asking for her in marriage. The records were sought and his whole past became known. The girl's father was rich and succeeded in having him prosecuted. He did not try to defend himself but admitted everything, and so was sent to prison. The woman gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl, who were nurtured in secret and made to believe that their father was dead no difficult matter, since at a tender age they saw their mother die, and they gave little thought to tracing genealogies. As our maternal grandfather was rich our childhood passed happily. My sister and I were brought up together, loving one another as only twins can love when they have no other affections. When quite young I was sent to study in the Jesuit College, and my sister, in order that we might not be completely separated, entered the Concordia College. After our brief education was finished, since we desired only to be farmers, we returned to the town to take possession of the inheritance left us by our grandfather. We lived happily for a time, the future smiled on us, we had many servants, our' fields produced abundant harvests, and my sister was about to be married to a young man whom she adored and who responded equally to her affection.
"But in a dispute over money and by reason of my haughty disposition at that time, I alienated the good will of a distant relative, and one day he east in my face my doubtful birth and shameful descent. I thought it all a slander and demanded satisfaction. The tomb which covered so much rottenness was again opened and to my consternation the whole truth came out to overwhelm me. To add to our sorrow, we had had for many years an old servant who had endured all my whims without ever leaving us, contenting himself merely with weeping and groaning at the rough jests of the other servants. I don't know how my relative had found it out, but the fact is that he had this old man summoned into court and made him tell the truth: that old servant, who had clung to his beloved children, and whom I had abused many times, was my father! Our happiness faded away, I gave up our fortune, my sister lost her betrothed, and with our father we left the town to seek refuge elsewhere. The thought that he had contributed to our misfortunes shortened the old man's days, but before he died I learned from his lips the whole story of the sorrowful past.
"My sister and I were left alone. She wept a great deal, but even in the midst of such great sorrows as heaped themselves upon us, she could not forget her love. Without complaining, without uttering a word, she saw her former sweetheart married to another girl, but I watched her gradually sicken without being able to console her. One day she disappeared, and it was in vain that I sought everywhere, in vain I made inquiries about her. About six months afterwards I learned that about that time, after a flood on the lake, there had been found in some rice fields bordering on the beach at Kalamba, the corpse of a young woman who had been either drowned or murdered, for she had had, so they said, a knife sticking in her breast. The officials of that town published the fact in the country round about, but no one came to claim the body, no young woman apparently had disappeared. From the description they gave me afterward of her dress, her ornaments, the beauty of her countenance, and her abundant hair, I recognized in her my poor sister.
