The Social Cancer - 33

had burned the whole house they wouldn't have touched a hair of your
head. But _quod_ _eventum, eventum; gratias agamus Domino Deo quia
non in Marianis Insulis es, camotes seminando_." [167]
Stories similar to Capitan Tinong's were not unknown to Capitan Tiago,
so he bubbled over with gratitude, without knowing exactly to whom he
owed such signal favors. Aunt Isabel attributed the miracle to the
Virgin of Antipolo, to the Virgin of the Rosary, or at least to the
Virgin of Carmen, and at the very, very least that she was willing
to concede, to Our Lady of the Girdle; according to her the miracle
could not get beyond that.
Capitan Tiago did not deny the miracle, but added: "I think so, Isabel,
but the Virgin of Antipolo couldn't have done it alone. My friends
have helped, my future son-in-law, Señor Linares, who, as you know,
joked with Señor Antonio Canovas himself, the premier whose portrait
appears in the _Ilustración_, he who doesn't condescend to show more
than half his face to the people."
So the good man could not repress a smile of satisfaction every
time that he heard any important news. And there was plenty of news:
it was whispered about in secret that Ibarra would be hanged; that,
while many proofs of his guilt had been lacking, at last some one
had appeared to sustain the accusation; that experts had declared
that in fact the work on the schoolhouse could pass for a bulwark of
fortification, although somewhat defective, as was only to be expected
of ignorant Indians. These rumors calmed him and made him smile.
In the same way that Capitan Tiago and his cousin diverged in
their opinions, the friends of the family were also divided into
two parties,--one miraculous, the other governmental, although this
latter was insignificant. The miraculous party was again subdivided:
the senior sacristan of Binondo, the candle-woman, and the leader
of the Brotherhood saw the hand of God directed by the Virgin of the
Rosary; while the Chinese wax-chandler, his caterer on his visits to
Antipolo, said, as he fanned himself and shook his leg:
"Don't fool yourself--it's the Virgin of Antipolo! She can do more
than all the rest--don't fool yourself!" [168]
Capitan Tiago had great respect for this Chinese, who passed himself
off as a prophet and a physician. Examining the palm of the deceased
lady just before her daughter was born, he had prognosticated:
"If it's not a boy and doesn't die, it'll be a fine girl!" [169] and
Maria Clara had come into the world to fulfill the infidel's prophecy.
Capitan Tiago, then, as a prudent and cautious man, could not decide
so easily as Trojan Paris--he could not so lightly give the preference
to one Virgin for fear of offending another, a situation that might be
fraught with grave consequences. "Prudence!" he said to himself. "Let's
not go and spoil it all now."
He was still in the midst of these doubts when the governmental party
arrived,--Doña Victorina, Don Tiburcio, and Linares. Doña Victorina did
the talking for the three men as well as for herself. She mentioned
Linares' visits to the Captain-General and repeatedly insinuated
the advantages of a relative of "quality." "Now," she concluded,
"as we was zaying: he who zhelterz himzelf well, builds a good roof."
"T-the other w-way, w-woman!" corrected the doctor.
For some days now she had been endeavoring to _Andalusize_ her speech,
and no one had been able to get this idea out of her head--she would
sooner have first let them tear off her false frizzes.
"Yez," she went on, speaking of Ibarra, "he deserves it all. I told
you zo when I first zaw him, he's a filibuzter. What did the General
zay to you, cousin? What did he zay? What news did he tell you about
thiz Ibarra?"
Seeing that her cousin was slow in answering, she continued, directing
her remarks to Capitan Tiago, "Believe me, if they zentenz him to
death, as is to be hoped, it'll be on account of my cousin."
"Señora, señora!" protested Linares.
But she gave him no time for objections. "How diplomatic you have
become! We know that you're the adviser of the General, that he
couldn't live without you. Ah, Clarita, what a pleasure to zee you!"
Maria Clara was still pale, although now quite recovered from her
illness. Her long hair was tied up with a light blue silk ribbon. With
a timid bow and a sad smile she went up to Doña Victorina for the
ceremonial kiss.
After the usual conventional remarks, the pseudo-Andalusian continued:
"We've come to visit you. You've been zaved, thankz to your
relations." This was said with a significant glance toward Linares.
"God has protected my father," replied the girl in a low voice.
"Yez, Clarita, but the time of the miracles is pazt. We Zpaniards zay:
'Truzt in the Virgin and take to your heels.'"
"T-the other w-way!"
Capitan Tiago, who had up to this point had no chance to speak, now
made bold enough to ask, while he threw himself into an attitude of
strict attention, "So you, Doña Victorina, think that the Virgin--"
"We've come ezpezially to talk with you about the virgin," she answered
mysteriously, making a sign toward Maria Clara. "We've come to talk
business."
The maiden understood that she was expected to retire, so with an
excuse she went away, supporting herself on the furniture.
What was said and what was agreed upon in this conference was so
sordid and mean that we prefer not to recount it. It is enough to
record that as they took their leave they were all merry, and that
afterwards Capitan Tiago said to Aunt Isabel:
"Notify the restaurant that we'll have a fiesta tomorrow. Get Maria
ready, for we're going to marry her off before long."
Aunt Isabel stared at him in consternation.
"You'll see! When Señor Linares is our son-in-law we'll get into all
the palaces. Every one will envy us, every one will die of envy!"
Thus it happened that at eight o'clock on the following evening
the house of Capitan Tiago was once again filled, but this time his
guests were only Spaniards and Chinese. The fair sex was represented
by Peninsular and Philippine-Spanish ladies.
There were present the greater part of our acquaintances: Padre Sibyla
and Padre Salvi among various Franciscans and Dominicans; the old
lieutenant of the Civil Guard, Señor Guevara, gloomier than ever;
the alferez, who was for the thousandth time describing his battle
and gazing over his shoulders at every one, believing himself to
be a Don John of Austria, for he was now a major; De Espadaña, who
looked at the alferez with respect and fear, and avoided his gaze;
and Doña Victorina, swelling with indignation. Linares had not yet
come; as a personage of importance, he had to arrive later than the
others. There are creatures so simple that by being an hour behind
time they transform themselves into great men.
In the group of women Maria Clara was the subject of a murmured
conversation. The maiden had welcomed them all ceremoniously, without
losing her air of sadness.
"Pish!" remarked one young woman. "The proud little thing!"
"Pretty little thing!" responded another. "But he might have picked
out some other girl with a less foolish face."
"The gold, child! The good youth is selling himself."
In another part the comments ran thus:
"To get married when her first fiancé is about to be hanged!"
"That's what's called prudence, having a substitute ready."
"Well, when she gets to be a widow--"
Maria Clara was seated in a chair arranging a salver of flowers and
doubtless heard all these remarks, for her hand trembled, she turned
pale, and several times bit her lips.
In the circle of men the conversation was carried on in loud tones
and, naturally, turned upon recent events. All were talking, even
Don Tiburcio, with the exception of Padre Sibyla, who maintained his
usual disdainful silence.
"I've heard it said that your Reverence is leaving the town, Padre
Salvi?" inquired the new major, whose fresh star had made him more
amiable.
"I have nothing more to do there. I'm going to stay permanently in
Manila. And you?"
"I'm also leaving the town," answered the ex-alferez, swelling up. "The
government needs me to command a flying column to clean the provinces
of filibusters."
Fray Sibyla looked him over rapidly from head to foot and then turned
his back completely.
"Is it known for certain what will become of the ringleader, the
filibuster?" inquired a government employee.
"Do you mean Crisostomo Ibarra?" asked another. "The most likely and
most just thing is that he will be hanged, like those of '72."
"He's going to be deported," remarked the old lieutenant, dryly.
"Deported! Nothing more than deported? But it will be a perpetual
deportation!" exclaimed several voices at the same time.
"If that young man," continued the lieutenant, Guevara, in a loud
and severe tone, "had been more cautious, if he had confided less
in certain persons with whom he corresponded, if our prosecutors did
not know how to interpret so subtly what is written, that young man
would surely have been acquitted."
This declaration on the part of the old lieutenant and the tone
of his voice produced great surprise among his hearers, who were
apparently at a loss to know what to say. Padre Salvi stared in
another direction, perhaps to avoid the gloomy look that the old
soldier turned on him. Maria Clara let her flowers fall and remained
motionless. Padre Sibyla, who knew so well how to be silent, seemed
also to be the only one who knew how to ask a question.
"You're speaking of letters, Señor Guevara?"
"I'm speaking of what was told me by his lawyer, who looked after the
case with interest and zeal. Outside of some ambiguous lines which this
youth wrote to a woman before he left for Europe, lines in which the
government's attorney saw a plot and a threat against the government,
and which he acknowledged to be his, there wasn't anything found to
accuse him of."
"But the declaration of the outlaw before he died?"
"His lawyer had that thrown out because, according to the outlaw
himself, they had never communicated with the young man, but with
a certain Lucas, who was an enemy of his, as could be proved, and
who committed suicide, perhaps from remorse. It was proved that the
papers found on the corpse were forged, since the handwriting was
like that of Señor Ibarra's seven years ago, but not like his now,
which leads to the belief that the model for them may have been that
incriminating letter. Besides, the lawyer says that if Señor Ibarra
had refused to acknowledge the letter, he might have been able to
do a great deal for him--but at sight of the letter he turned pale,
lost his courage, and confirmed everything written in it."
"Did you say that the letter was directed to a woman?" asked a
Franciscan. "How did it get into the hands of the prosecutor?"
The lieutenant did not answer. He stared for a moment at Padre Salvi
and then moved away, nervously twisting the sharp point of his gray
beard. The others made their comments.
"There is seen the hand of God!" remarked one. "Even the women
hate him."
"He had his house burned down, thinking in that way to save himself,
but he didn't count on the guest, on his _querida_, his _babaye_,"
added another, laughing. "It's the work of God! _Santiago y cierra
España!_" [170]
Meanwhile the old soldier paused in his pacing about and approached
Maria Clara, who was listening to the conversation, motionless in
her chair, with the flowers scattered at her feet.
"You are a very prudent girl," the old officer whispered to her. "You
did well to give up the letter. You have thus assured yourself an
untroubled future."
With startled eyes she watched him move away from her, and bit her
lip. Fortunately, Aunt Isabel came along, and she had sufficient
strength left to catch hold of the old lady's skirt.
"Aunt!" she murmured.
"What's the matter?" asked the old lady, frightened by the look on
the girl's face.
"Take me to my room!" she pleaded, grasping her aunt's arm in order
to rise.
"Are you sick, daughter? You look as if you'd lost your bones! What's
the matter?"
"A fainting spell--the people in the room--so many lights--I need to
rest. Tell father that I'm going to sleep."
"You're cold. Do you want some tea?"
Maria Clara shook her head, entered and locked the door of her
chamber, and then, her strength failing her, she fell sobbing to the
floor at the feet of an image.
"Mother, mother, mother mine!" she sobbed.
Through the window and a door that opened on the azotea the moonlight
entered. The musicians continued to play merry waltzes, laughter
and the hum of voices penetrated into the chamber, several times her
father, Aunt Isabel, Doña Victorina, and even Linares knocked at the
door, but Maria did not move. Heavy sobs shook her breast.
Hours passed--the pleasures of the dinner-table ended, the sound of
singing and dancing was heard, the candle burned itself out, but the
maiden still remained motionless on the moonlit floor at the feet of
an image of the Mother of Jesus.
Gradually the house became quiet again, the lights were extinguished,
and Aunt Isabel once more knocked at the door.
"Well, she's gone to sleep," said the old woman, aloud. "As she's
young and has no cares, she sleeps like a corpse."
When all was silence she raised herself slowly and threw a look about
her. She saw the azotea with its little arbors bathed in the ghostly
light of the moon.
"An untroubled future! She sleeps like a corpse!" she repeated in a
low voice as she made her way out to the azotea.
The city slept. Only from time to time there was heard the noise of a
carriage crossing the wooden bridge over the river, whose undisturbed
waters reflected smoothly the light of the moon. The young woman
raised her eyes toward a sky as clear as sapphire. Slowly she took
the rings from her fingers and from her ears and removed the combs
from her hair. Placing them on the balustrade of the azotea, she
gazed toward the river.
A small banka loaded with zacate stopped at the foot of the landing
such as every house on the bank of the river has. One of two men who
were in it ran up the stone stairway and jumped over the wall, and a
few seconds later his footsteps were heard on the stairs leading to
the azotea.
Maria Clara saw him pause on discovering her, but only for a
moment. Then he advanced slowly and stopped within a few paces of
her. Maria Clara recoiled.
"Crisostomo!" she murmured, overcome with fright.
"Yes, I am Crisostomo," replied the young man gravely. "An enemy,
a man who has every reason for hating me, Elias, has rescued me from
the prison into which my friends threw me."
A sad silence followed these words. Maria Clara bowed her head and
let her arms fall.
Ibarra went on: "Beside my mother's corpse I swore that I would make
you happy, whatever might be my destiny! You can have been faithless
to your oath, for she was not your mother; but I, I who am her son,
hold her memory so sacred that in spite of a thousand difficulties I
have come here to carry mine out, and fate has willed that I should
speak to you yourself. Maria, we shall never see each other again--you
are young and perhaps some day your conscience may reproach you--I have
come to tell you, before I go away forever, that I forgive you. Now,
may you be happy and--farewell!"
Ibarra started to move away, but the girl stopped him.
"Crisostomo," she said, "God has sent you to save me from
desperation. Hear me and then judge me!"
Ibarra tried gently to draw away from her. "I didn't come to call
you to account! I came to give you peace!"
"I don't want that peace which you bring me. Peace I will give
myself. You despise me and your contempt will embitter all the rest
of my life."
Ibarra read the despair and sorrow depicted in the suffering girl's
face and asked her what she wished.
"That you believe that I have always loved you!"
At this he smiled bitterly.
"Ah, you doubt me! You doubt the friend of your childhood, who
has never hidden a single thought from you!" the maiden exclaimed
sorrowfully. "I understand now! But when you hear my story, the sad
story that was revealed to me during my illness, you will have mercy
on me, you will not have that smile for my sorrow. Why did you not
let me die in the hands of my ignorant physician? You and I both
would have been happier!"
Resting a moment, she then went on: "You have desired it, you have
doubted me! But may my mother forgive me! On one of the sorrowfulest
of my nights of suffering, a man revealed to me the name of my real
father and forbade me to love you--except that my father himself
should pardon the injury you had done him."
Ibarra recoiled a pace and gazed fearfully at her.
"Yes," she continued, "that man told me that he could not permit our
union, since his conscience would forbid it, and that he would be
obliged to reveal the name of my real father at the risk of causing a
great scandal, for my father is--" And she murmured into the youth's
ear a name in so low a tone that only he could have heard it.
"What was I to do? Must I sacrifice to my love the memory of my
mother, the honor of my supposed father, and the good name of the
real one? Could I have done that without having even you despise me?"
"But the proof! Had you any proof? You needed proofs!" exclaimed
Ibarra, trembling with emotion.
The maiden snatched two papers from her bosom.
"Two letters of my mother's, two letters written in the midst of her
remorse, while I was yet unborn! Take them, read them, and you will
see how she cursed me and wished for my death, which my father vainly
tried to bring about with drugs. These letters he had forgotten in a
building where he had lived; the other man found and preserved them
and only gave them up to me in exchange for your letter, in order
to assure himself, so he said, that I would not marry you without
the consent of my father. Since I have been carrying them about with
me, in place of your letter, I have, felt the chill in my heart. I
sacrificed you, I sacrificed my love! What else could one do for a
dead mother and two living fathers? Could I have suspected the use
that was to be made of your letter?"
Ibarra stood appalled, while she continued: "What more was left for me
to do? Could I perhaps tell you who my father was, could I tell you
that you should beg forgiveness of him who made your father suffer
so much? Could I ask my father that he forgive you, could I tell him
that I knew that I was his daughter--him, who desired my death so
eagerly? It was only left to me to suffer, to guard the secret, and
to die suffering! Now, my friend, now that you know the sad history
of your poor Maria, will you still have for her that disdainful smile?"
"Maria, you are an angel!"
"Then I am happy, since you believe me--"
"But yet," added the youth with a change of tone, "I've heard that
you are going to be married."
"Yes," sobbed the girl, "my father demands this sacrifice. He has
loved me and cared for me when it was not his duty to do so, and I
will pay this debt of gratitude to assure his peace, by means of this
new relationship, but--"
"But what?"
"I will never forget the vows of faithfulness that I have made to you."
"What are you thinking of doing?" asked Ibarra, trying to read the
look in her eyes.
"The future is dark and my destiny is wrapped in gloom! I don't know
what I should do. But know, that I have loved but once and that without
love I will never belong to any man. And you, what is going to become
of you?"
"I am only a fugitive, I am fleeing. In a little while my flight will
have been discovered. Maria--"
Maria Clara caught the youth's head in her hands and kissed him
repeatedly on the lips, embraced him, and drew abruptly away. "Go,
go!" she cried. "Go, and farewell!"
Ibarra gazed at her with shining eyes, but at a gesture from her
moved away--intoxicated, wavering.
Once again he leaped over the wall and stepped into the banka. Maria
Clara, leaning over the balustrade, watched him depart. Elias took
off his hat and bowed to her profoundly.


CHAPTER LXI
The Chase on the Lake

"Listen, sir, to the plan that I have worked out," said Elias
thoughtfully, as they moved in the direction of San Gabriel. "I'll
hide you now in the house of a friend of mine in Mandaluyong. I'll
bring you all your money, which I saved and buried at the foot of
the balete in the mysterious tomb of your grandfather. Then you will
leave the country."
"To go abroad?" inquired Ibarra.
"To live out in peace the days of life that remain to you. You have
friends in Spain, you are rich, you can get yourself pardoned. In every
way a foreign country is for us a better fatherland than our own."
Crisostomo did not answer, but meditated in silence. At that moment
they reached the Pasig and the banka began to ascend the current. Over
the Bridge of Spain a horseman galloped rapidly, while a shrill,
prolonged whistle was heard.
"Elias," said Ibarra, "you owe your misfortunes to my family, you have
saved my life twice, and I owe you not only gratitude but also the
restitution of your fortune. You advise me to go abroad--then come
with me and we will live like brothers. Here you also are wretched."
Elias shook his head sadly and answered: "Impossible! It's true that I
cannot love or be happy in my country, but I can suffer and die in it,
and perhaps for it--that is always something. May the misfortunes of
my native land be my own misfortunes and, although no noble sentiment
unites us, although our hearts do not beat to a single name, at least
may the common calamity bind me to my countrymen, at least may I weep
over our sorrows with them, may the same hard fate oppress all our
hearts alike!"
"Then why do you advise me to go away?"
"Because in some other country you could be happy while I could not,
because you are not made to suffer, and because you would hate your
country if some day you should see yourself ruined in its cause,
and to hate one's native land is the greatest of calamities."
"You are unfair to me!" exclaimed Ibarra with bitter reproach. "You
forget that scarcely had I arrived here when I set myself to seek
its welfare."
"Don't be offended, sir, I was not reproaching you at all. Would
that all of us could imitate you! But I do not ask impossibilities
of you and I mean no offense when I say that your heart deceives
you. You loved your country because your father taught you to do so;
you loved it because in it you had affection, fortune, youth, because
everything smiled on you, your country had done you no injustice;
you loved it as we love anything that makes us happy. But the day in
which you see yourself poor and hungry, persecuted, betrayed, and
sold by your own countrymen, on that day you will disown yourself,
your country, and all mankind."
"Your words pain me," said Ibarra resentfully.
Elias bowed his head and meditated before replying. "I wish to
disillusion you, sir, and save you from a sad future. Recall that
night when I talked to you in this same banka under the light of
this same moon, not a month ago. Then you were happy, the plea of
the unfortunates did not touch you; you disdained their complaints
because they were the complaints of criminals; you paid more attention
to their enemies, and in spite of my arguments and petitions, you
placed yourself on the side of their oppressors. On you then depended
whether I should turn criminal or allow myself to be killed in order
to carry out a sacred pledge, but God has not permitted this because
the old chief of the outlaws is dead. A month has hardly passed and
you think otherwise."
"You're right, Elias, but man is a creature of circumstances! Then
I was blind, annoyed--what did I know? Now misfortune has torn
the bandage from my eyes; the solitude and misery of my prison have
taught me; now I see the horrible cancer which feeds upon this society,
which clutches its flesh, and which demands a violent rooting out. They
have opened my eyes, they have made me see the sore, and they force me
to be a criminal! Since they wish it, I will be a filibuster, a real
filibuster, I mean. I will call together all the unfortunates, all who
feel a heart beat in their breasts, all those who were sending you to
me. No, I will not be a criminal, never is he such who fights for his
native land, but quite the reverse! We, during three centuries, have
extended them our hands, we have asked love of them, we have yearned
to call them brothers, and how do they answer us? With insults and
jests, denying us even the chance character of human beings. There
is no God, there is no hope, there is no humanity; there is nothing
but the right of might!" Ibarra was nervous, his whole body trembled.
As they passed in front of the Captain-General's palace they thought
that they could discern movement and excitement among the guards.
"Can they have discovered your flight?" murmured Elias. "Lie down,
sir, so that I can cover you with zacate. Since we shall pass near
the powder-magazine it may seem suspicious to the sentinel that there
are two of us."
The banka was one of those small, narrow canoes that do not seem to
float but rather to glide over the top of the water. As Elias had
foreseen, the sentinel stopped him and inquired whence he came.
"From Manila, to carry zacate to the judges and curates," he answered,
imitating the accent of the people of Pandakan.
A sergeant came out to learn what was happening. "Move on!" he said
to Elias. "But I warn you not to take anybody into your banka. A
prisoner has just escaped. If you capture him and turn him over to
me I'll give you a good tip."
"All right, sir. What's his description?"
"He wears a sack coat and talks Spanish. So look out!" The banka moved
away. Elias looked back and watched the silhouette of the sentinel
standing on the bank of the river.
"We'll lose a few minutes' time," he said in a low voice. "We must
go into the Beata River to pretend that I'm from Peñafrancia. You
will see the river of which Francisco Baltazar sang."
The town slept in the moonlight, and Crisostomo rose up to admire the
sepulchral peace of nature. The river was narrow and the level land
on either side covered with grass. Elias threw his cargo out on the
bank and, after removing a large piece of bamboo, took from under
the grass some empty palm-leaf sacks. Then they continued on their way.
"You are the master of your own will, sir, and of your future," he said
to Crisostomo, who had remained silent. "But if you will allow me an
observation, I would say: think well what you are planning to do--you
are going to light the flames of war, since you have money and brains,
and you will quickly find many to join you, for unfortunately there
are plenty of malcontents. But in this struggle which you are going
to undertake, those who will suffer most will be the defenseless and
the innocent. The same sentiments that a month ago impelled me to
appeal to you asking for reforms are those that move me now to urge
you to think well. The country, sir, does not think of separating from
the mother country; it only asks for a little freedom, justice, and
affection. You will be supported by the malcontents, the criminals,
the desperate, but the people will hold aloof. You are mistaken if,
seeing all dark, you think that the country is desperate. The country
suffers, yes, but it still hopes and trusts and will only rebel when
it has lost its patience, that is, when those who govern it wish it
to do so, and that time is yet distant. I myself will not follow you,
never will I resort to such extreme measures while I see hope in men."