The Reign of Greed - 03

before their eyes was so truly magnificent that all were impressed. In
front extended the beautiful lake bordered by green shores and blue
mountains, like a huge mirror, framed in emeralds and sapphires,
reflecting the sky in its glass. On the right were spread out the
low shores, forming bays with graceful curves, and dim there in the
distance the crags of Sungay, while in the background rose Makiling,
imposing and majestic, crowned with fleecy clouds. On the left lay
Talim Island with its curious sweep of hills. A fresh breeze rippled
over the wide plain of water.
"By the way, captain," said Ben-Zayb, turning around, "do you know
in what part of the lake a certain Guevara, Navarra, or Ibarra,
was killed?"
The group looked toward the captain, with the exception of Simoun, who
had turned away his head as though to look for something on the shore.
"Ah, yes!" exclaimed Doña Victorina. "Where, captain? Did he leave
any tracks in the water?"
The good captain winked several times, an indication that he was
annoyed, but reading the request in the eyes of all, took a few steps
toward the bow and scanned the shore.
"Look over there," he said in a scarcely audible voice, after making
sure that no strangers were near. "According to the officer who
conducted the pursuit, Ibarra, upon finding himself surrounded, jumped
out of his banka there near the Kinabutasan [11] and, swimming under
water, covered all that distance of more than two miles, saluted by
bullets every time that he raised his head to breathe. Over yonder is
where they lost track of him, and a little farther on near the shore
they discovered something like the color of blood. And now I think
of it, it's just thirteen years, day for day, since this happened."
"So that his corpse--" began Ben-Zayb.
"Went to join his father's," replied Padre Sibyla. "Wasn't he also
another filibuster, Padre Salvi?"
"That's what might be called cheap funerals, Padre Camorra,
eh?" remarked Ben-Zayb.
"I've always said that those who won't pay for expensive funerals
are filibusters," rejoined the person addressed, with a merry laugh.
"But what's the matter with you, Señor Simoun?" inquired Ben-Zayb,
seeing that the jeweler was motionless and thoughtful. "Are you
seasick--an old traveler like you? On such a drop of water as this!"
"I want to tell you," broke in the captain, who had come to hold all
those places in great affection, "that you can't call this a drop
of water. It's larger than any lake in Switzerland and all those in
Spain put together. I've seen old sailors who got seasick here."


CHAPTER IV
CABESANG TALES

Those who have read the first part of this story will perhaps remember
an old wood-cutter who lived in the depths of the forest. [12] Tandang
Selo is still alive, and though his hair has turned completely white,
he yet preserves his good health. He no longer hunts or cuts firewood,
for his fortunes have improved and he works only at making brooms.
His son Tales (abbreviation of Telesforo) had worked at first on shares
on the lands of a capitalist, but later, having become the owner of
two carabaos and several hundred pesos, determined to work on his own
account, aided by his father, his wife, and his three children. So
they cut down and cleared away some thick woods which were situated
on the borders of the town and which they believed belonged to no
one. During the labors of cleaning and cultivating the new land,
the whole family fell ill with malaria and the mother died, along
with the eldest daughter, Lucia, in the flower of her age. This,
which was the natural consequence of breaking up new soil infested
with various kinds of bacteria, they attributed to the anger of the
woodland spirit, so they were resigned and went on with their labor,
believing him pacified.
But when they began to harvest their first crop a religious
corporation, which owned land in the neighboring town, laid claim to
the fields, alleging that they fell within their boundaries, and to
prove it they at once started to set up their marks. However, the
administrator of the religious order left to them, for humanity's
sake, the usufruct of the land on condition that they pay a small
sum annually--a mere bagatelle, twenty or thirty pesos. Tales, as
peaceful a man as could be found, was as much opposed to lawsuits
as any one and more submissive to the friars than most people; so,
in order not to smash a _palyok_ against a _kawali_ (as he said,
for to him the friars were iron pots and he a clay jar), he had the
weakness to yield to their claim, remembering that he did not know
Spanish and had no money to pay lawyers.
Besides, Tandang Selo said to him, "Patience! You would spend more
in one year of litigation than in ten years of paying what the white
padres demand. And perhaps they'll pay you back in masses! Pretend
that those thirty pesos had been lost in gambling or had fallen into
the water and been swallowed by a cayman."
The harvest was abundant and sold well, so Tales planned to build a
wooden house in the barrio of Sagpang, of the town of Tiani, which
adjoined San Diego.
Another year passed, bringing another good crop, and for this reason
the friars raised the rent to fifty pesos, which Tales paid in order
not to quarrel and because he expected to sell his sugar at a good
price.
"Patience! Pretend that the cayman has grown some," old Selo consoled
him.
That year he at last saw his dream realized: to live in the barrio of
Sagpang in a wooden house. The father and grandfather then thought of
providing some education for the two children, especially the daughter
Juliana, or Juli, as they called her, for she gave promise of being
accomplished and beautiful. A boy who was a friend of the family,
Basilio, was studying in Manila, and he was of as lowly origin as they.
But this dream seemed destined not to be realized. The first care the
community took when they saw the family prospering was to appoint as
cabeza de barangay its most industrious member, which left only Tano,
the son, who was only fourteen years old. The father was therefore
called _Cabesang_ Tales and had to order a sack coat, buy a felt hat,
and prepare to spend his money. In order to avoid any quarrel with
the curate or the government, he settled from his own pocket the
shortages in the tax-lists, paying for those who had died or moved
away, and he lost considerable time in making the collections and on
his trips to the capital.
"Patience! Pretend that the cayman's relatives have joined him,"
advised Tandang Selo, smiling placidly.
"Next year you'll put on a long skirt and go to Manila to study like
the young ladies of the town," Cabesang Tales told his daughter every
time he heard her talking of Basilio's progress.
But that next year did not come, and in its stead there was another
increase in the rent. Cabesang Tales became serious and scratched
his head. The clay jar was giving up all its rice to the iron pot.
When the rent had risen to two hundred pesos, Tales was not content
with scratching his head and sighing; he murmured and protested. The
friar-administrator then told him that if he could not pay, some one
else would be assigned to cultivate that land--many who desired it
had offered themselves.
He thought at first that the friar was joking, but the friar was
talking seriously, and indicated a servant of his to take possession
of the land. Poor Tales turned pale, he felt a buzzing in his ears, he
saw in the red mist that rose before his eyes his wife and daughter,
pallid, emaciated, dying, victims of the intermittent fevers--then
he saw the thick forest converted into productive fields, he saw the
stream of sweat watering its furrows, he saw himself plowing under
the hot sun, bruising his feet against the stones and roots, while
this friar had been driving about in his carriage with the wretch who
was to get the land following like a slave behind his master. No, a
thousand times, no! First let the fields sink into the depths of the
earth and bury them all! Who was this intruder that he should have
any right to his land? Had he brought from his own country a single
handful of that soil? Had he crooked a single one of his fingers to
pull up the roots that ran through it?
Exasperated by the threats of the friar, who tried to uphold his
authority at any cost in the presence of the other tenants, Cabesang
Tales rebelled and refused to pay a single cuarto, having ever before
himself that red mist, saying that he would give up his fields to the
first man who could irrigate it with blood drawn from his own veins.
Old Selo, on looking at his son's face, did not dare to mention the
cayman, but tried to calm him by talking of clay jars, reminding him
that the winner in a lawsuit was left without a shirt to his back.
"We shall all be turned to clay, father, and without shirts we were
born," was the reply.
So he resolutely refused to pay or to give up a single span of his
land unless the friars should first prove the legality of their claim
by exhibiting a title-deed of some kind. As they had none, a lawsuit
followed, and Cabesang Tales entered into it, confiding that some at
least, if not all, were lovers of justice and respecters of the law.
"I serve and have been serving the King with my money and my services,"
he said to those who remonstrated with him. "I'm asking for justice
and he is obliged to give it to me."
Drawn on by fatality, and as if he had put into play in the lawsuit
the whole future of himself and his children, he went on spending his
savings to pay lawyers, notaries, and solicitors, not to mention the
officials and clerks who exploited his ignorance and his needs. He
moved to and fro between the village and the capital, passed his
days without eating and his nights without sleeping, while his talk
was always about briefs, exhibits, and appeals. There was then seen
a struggle such as was never before carried on under the skies of the
Philippines: that of a poor Indian, ignorant and friendless, confiding
in the justness and righteousness of his cause, fighting against a
powerful corporation before which Justice bowed her head, while the
judges let fall the scales and surrendered the sword. He fought as
tenaciously as the ant which bites when it knows that it is going
to be crushed, as does the fly which looks into space only through
a pane of glass. Yet the clay jar defying the iron pot and smashing
itself into a thousand pieces bad in it something impressive--it had
the sublimeness of desperation!
On the days when his journeys left him free he patrolled his fields
armed with a shotgun, saying that the tulisanes were hovering around
and he had need of defending himself in order not to fall into their
hands and thus lose his lawsuit. As if to improve his marksmanship,
he shot at birds and fruits, even the butterflies, with such accurate
aim that the friar-administrator did not dare to go to Sagpang without
an escort of civil-guards, while the friar's hireling, who gazed from
afar at the threatening figure of Tales wandering over the fields
like a sentinel upon the walls, was terror stricken and refused to
take the property away from him.
But the local judges and those at the capital, warned by the experience
of one of their number who had been summarily dismissed, dared not
give him the decision, fearing their own dismissal. Yet they were not
really bad men, those judges, they were upright and conscientious,
good citizens, excellent fathers, dutiful sons--and they were
able to appreciate poor Tales' situation better than Tales himself
could. Many of them were versed in the scientific and historical
basis of property, they knew that the friars by their own statutes
could not own property, but they also knew that to come from far
across the sea with an appointment secured with great difficulty,
to undertake the duties of the position with the best intentions,
and now to lose it because an Indian fancied that justice had to
be done on earth as in heaven--that surely was an idea! They had
their families and greater needs surely than that Indian: one had
a mother to provide for, and what duty is more sacred than that of
caring for a mother? Another had sisters, all of marriageable age;
that other there had many little children who expected their daily
bread and who, like fledglings in a nest, would surely die of hunger
the day he was out of a job; even the very least of them had there,
far away, a wife who would be in distress if the monthly remittance
failed. All these moral and conscientious judges tried everything in
their power in the way of counsel, advising Cabesang Tales to pay
the rent demanded. But Tales, like all simple souls, once he had
seen what was just, went straight toward it. He demanded proofs,
documents, papers, title-deeds, but the friars had none of these,
resting their case on his concessions in the past.
Cabesang Tales' constant reply was: "If every day I give alms to a
beggar to escape annoyance, who will oblige me to continue my gifts
if he abuses my generosity?"
From this stand no one could draw him, nor were there any threats that
could intimidate him. In vain Governor M---- made a trip expressly
to talk to him and frighten him. His reply to it all was: "You may
do what you like, Mr. Governor, I'm ignorant and powerless. But I've
cultivated those fields, my wife and daughter died while helping me
clear them, and I won't give them up to any one but him who can do
more with them than I've done. Let him first irrigate them with his
blood and bury in them his wife and daughter!"
The upshot of this obstinacy was that the honorable judges gave the
decision to the friars, and everybody laughed at him, saying that
lawsuits are not won by justice. But Cabesang Tales appealed, loaded
his shotgun, and patrolled his fields with deliberation.
During this period his life seemed to be a wild dream. His son,
Tano, a youth as tall as his father and as good as his sister, was
conscripted, but he let the boy go rather than purchase a substitute.
"I have to pay the lawyers," he told his weeping daughter. "If I win
the case I'll find a way to get him back, and if I lose it I won't
have any need for sons."
So the son went away and nothing more was heard of him except that his
hair had been cropped and that he slept under a cart. Six months later
it was rumored that he had been seen embarking for the Carolines;
another report was that he had been seen in the uniform of the
Civil Guard.
"Tano in the Civil Guard! _'Susmariosep_!" exclaimed several, clasping
their hands. "Tano, who was so good and so honest! _Requimternam!_"
The grandfather went many days without speaking to the father, Juli
fell sick, but Cabesang Tales did not shed a single tear, although for
two days he never left the house, as if he feared the looks of reproach
from the whole village or that he would be called the executioner of
his son. But on the third day he again sallied forth with his shotgun.
Murderous intentions were attributed to him, and there were
well-meaning persons who whispered about that he had been heard to
threaten that he would bury the friar-administrator in the furrows of
his fields, whereat the friar was frightened at him in earnest. As a
result of this, there came a decree from the Captain-General forbidding
the use of firearms and ordering that they be taken up. Cabesang Tales
had to hand over his shotgun but he continued his rounds armed with
a long bolo.
"What are you going to do with that bolo when the tulisanes have
firearms?" old Selo asked him.
"I must watch my crops," was the answer. "Every stalk of cane growing
there is one of my wife's bones."
The bolo was taken up on the pretext that it was too long. He then
took his father's old ax and with it on his shoulder continued his
sullen rounds.
Every time he left the house Tandang Selo and Juli trembled for his
life. The latter would get up from her loom, go to the window, pray,
make vows to the saints, and recite novenas. The grandfather was at
times unable to finish the handle of a broom and talked of returning
to the forest--life in that house was unbearable.
At last their fears were realized. As the fields were some distance
from the village, Cabesang Tales, in spite of his ax, fell into the
hands of tulisanes who had revolvers and rifles. They told him that
since he had money to pay judges and lawyers he must have some also
for the outcasts and the hunted. They therefore demanded a ransom of
five hundred pesos through the medium of a rustic, with the warning
that if anything happened to their messenger, the captive would pay
for it with his life. Two days of grace were allowed.
This news threw the poor family into the wildest terror, which was
augmented when they learned that the Civil Guard was going out in
pursuit of the bandits. In case of an encounter, the first victim
would be the captive--this they all knew. The old man was paralyzed,
while the pale and frightened daughter tried often to talk but could
not. Still, another thought more terrible, an idea more cruel, roused
them from their stupor. The rustic sent by the tulisanes said that
the band would probably have to move on, and if they were slow in
sending the ransom the two days would elapse and Cabesang Tales would
have his throat cut.
This drove those two beings to madness, weak and powerless as they
were. Tandang Selo got up, sat down, went outside, came back again,
knowing not where to go, where to seek aid. Juli appealed to her
images, counted and recounted her money, but her two hundred pesos
did not increase or multiply. Soon she dressed herself, gathered
together all her jewels, and asked the advice of her grandfather,
if she should go to see the gobernadorcillo, the judge, the notary,
the lieutenant of the Civil Guard. The old man said yes to everything,
or when she said no, he too said no. At length came the neighbors,
their relatives and friends, some poorer than others, in their
simplicity magnifying the fears. The most active of all was Sister
Bali, a great _panguinguera,_ who had been to Manila to practise
religious exercises in the nunnery of the Sodality.
Juli was willing to sell all her jewels, except a locket set with
diamonds and emeralds which Basilio had given her, for this locket
had a history: a nun, the daughter of Capitan Tiago, had given it to a
leper, who, in return for professional treatment, had made a present of
it to Basilio. So she could not sell it without first consulting him.
Quickly the shell-combs and earrings were sold, as well as Juli's
rosary, to their richest neighbor, and thus fifty pesos were added,
but two hundred and fifty were still lacking. The locket might be
pawned, but Juli shook her head. A neighbor suggested that the house
be sold and Tandang Selo approved the idea, satisfied to return to
the forest and cut firewood as of old, but Sister Bali observed that
this could not be done because the owner was not present.
"The judge's wife once sold me her _tapis_ for a peso, but her
husband said that the sale did not hold because it hadn't received
his approval. _Abá!_ He took back the _tapis_ and she hasn't returned
the peso yet, but I don't pay her when she wins at _panguingui, abá!_
In that way I've collected twelve cuartos, and for that alone I'm
going to play with her. I can't bear to have people fail to pay what
they owe me, _abá!_"
Another neighbor was going to ask Sister Bali why then did not
she settle a little account with her, but the quick _panguinguera_
suspected this and added at once: "Do you know, Juli, what you can
do? Borrow two hundred and fifty pesos on the house, payable when
the lawsuit is won."
This seemed to be the best proposition, so they decided to act upon
it that same day. Sister Bali offered to accompany her, and together
they visited the houses of all the rich folks in Tiani, but no one
would accept the proposal. The case, they said, was already lost,
and to show favors to an enemy of the friars was to expose themselves
to their vengeance. At last a pious woman took pity on the girl and
lent the money on condition that Juli should remain with her as a
servant until the debt was paid. Juli would not have so very much
to do: sew, pray, accompany her to mass, and fast for her now and
then. The girl accepted with tears in her eyes, received the money,
and promised to enter her service on the following day, Christmas.
When the grandfather heard of that sale he fell to weeping like a
child. What, that granddaughter whom he had not allowed to walk in the
sun lest her skin should be burned, Juli, she of the delicate fingers
and rosy feet! What, that girl, the prettiest in the village and
perhaps in the whole town, before whose window many gallants had vainly
passed the night playing and singing! What, his only granddaughter,
the sole joy of his fading eyes, she whom he had dreamed of seeing
dressed in a long skirt, talking Spanish, and holding herself erect
waving a painted fan like the daughters of the wealthy--she to become
a servant, to be scolded and reprimanded, to ruin her fingers, to
sleep anywhere, to rise in any manner whatsoever!
So the old grandfather wept and talked of hanging or starving himself
to death. "If you go," he declared, "I'm going back to the forest
and will never set foot in the town."
Juli soothed him by saying that it was necessary for her father to
return, that the suit would be won, and they could then ransom her
from her servitude.
The night was a sad one. Neither of the two could taste a bite and
the old man refused to lie down, passing the whole night seated in
a corner, silent and motionless. Juli on her part tried to sleep,
but for a long time could not close her eyes. Somewhat relieved about
her father's fate, she now thought of herself and fell to weeping,
but stifled her sobs so that the old man might not hear them. The
next day she would be a servant, and it was the very day Basilio was
accustomed to come from Manila with presents for her. Henceforward
she would have to give up that love; Basilio, who was going to be a
doctor, couldn't marry a pauper. In fancy she saw him going to the
church in company with the prettiest and richest girl in the town,
both well-dressed, happy and smiling, while she, Juli, followed her
mistress, carrying novenas, buyos, and the cuspidor. Here the girl
felt a lump rise in her throat, a sinking at her heart, and begged
the Virgin to let her die first.
But--said her conscience--he will at least know that I preferred to
pawn myself rather than the locket he gave me.
This thought consoled her a little and brought on empty dreams. Who
knows but that a miracle might happen? She might find the two hundred
and fifty pesos under the image of the Virgin--she had read of
many similar miracles. The sun might not rise nor morning come, and
meanwhile the suit would be won. Her father might return, or Basilio
put in his appearance, she might find a bag of gold in the garden,
the tulisanes would send the bag of gold, the curate, Padre Camorra,
who was always teasing her, would come with the tulisanes. So her
ideas became more and more confused, until at length, worn out by
fatigue and sorrow, she went to sleep with dreams of her childhood
in the depths of the forest: she was bathing in the torrent along
with her two brothers, there were little fishes of all colors that
let themselves be caught like fools, and she became impatient because
she found no pleasure in catchnig such foolish little fishes! Basilio
was under the water, but Basilio for some reason had the face of her
brother Tano. Her new mistress was watching them from the bank.


CHAPTER V
A COCHERO'S CHRISTMAS EVE

Basilio reached San Diego just as the Christmas Eve procession was
passing through the streets. He had been delayed on the road for
several hours because the cochero, having forgotten his cedula, was
held up by the Civil Guard, had his memory jogged by a few blows from
a rifle-butt, and afterwards was taken before the commandant. Now the
carromata was again detained to let the procession pass, while the
abused cochero took off his hat reverently and recited a paternoster
to the first image that came along, which seemed to be that of a
great saint. It was the figure of an old man with an exceptionally
long beard, seated at the edge of a grave under a tree filled with
all kinds of stuffed birds. A _kalan_ with a clay jar, a mortar,
and a _kalikut_ for mashing buyo were his only utensils, as if to
indicate that he lived on the border of the tomb and was doing his
cooking there. This was the Methuselah of the religious iconography
of the Philippines; his colleague and perhaps contemporary is called
in Europe Santa Claus, and is still more smiling and agreeable.
"In the time of the saints," thought the cochero, "surely there were no
civil-guards, because one can't live long on blows from rifle-butts."
Behind the great old man came the three Magian Kings on ponies that
were capering about, especially that of the negro Melchior, which
seemed to be about to trample its companions.
"No, there couldn't have been any civil-guards," decided the
cochero, secretly envying those fortunate times, "because if there
had been, that negro who is cutting up such capers beside those two
Spaniards"--Gaspar and Bathazar--"would have gone to jail."
Then, observing that the negro wore a crown and was a king, like the
other two, the Spaniards, his thoughts naturally turned to the king
of the Indians, and he sighed. "Do you know, sir," he asked Basilio
respectfully, "if his right foot is loose yet?"
Basilio had him repeat the question. "Whose right foot?"
"The King's!" whispered the cochero mysteriously.
"What King's?"
"Our King's, the King of the Indians."
Basilio smiled and shrugged his shoulders, while the cochero again
sighed. The Indians in the country places preserve the legend that
their king, imprisoned and chained in the cave of San Mateo, will
come some day to free them. Every hundredth year he breaks one of his
chains, so that he now has his hands and his left foot loose--only
the right foot remains bound. This king causes the earthquakes when he
struggles or stirs himself, and he is so strong that in shaking hands
with him it is necessary to extend to him a bone, which he crushes
in his grasp. For some unexplainable reason the Indians call him King
Bernardo, perhaps by confusing him with Bernardo del Carpio. [13]
"When he gets his right foot loose," muttered the cochero, stifling
another sigh, "I'll give him my horses, and offer him my services even
to death, for he'll free us from the Civil Guard." With a melancholy
gaze he watched the Three Kings move on.
The boys came behind in two files, sad and serious as though they were
there under compulsion. They lighted their way, some with torches,
others with tapers, and others with paper lanterns on bamboo poles,
while they recited the rosary at the top of their voices, as though
quarreling with somebody. Afterwards came St. Joseph on a modest float,
with a look of sadness and resignation on his face, carrying his stalk
of lilies, as he moved along between two civil-guards as though he were
a prisoner. This enabled the cochero to understand the expression on
the saint's face, but whether the sight of the guards troubled him or
he had no great respect for a saint who would travel in such company,
he did not recite a single requiem.
Behind St. Joseph came the girls bearing lights, their heads covered
with handkerchiefs knotted under their chins, also reciting the rosary,
but with less wrath than the boys. In their midst were to be seen
several lads dragging along little rabbits made of Japanese paper,
lighted by red candles, with their short paper tails erect. The lads
brought those toys into the procession to enliven the birth of the