الفصل الفصل 60 · Chapter LX

Maria Clara Weds

Capitan Tiago was very happy, for in all this terrible storm no one

had taken any notice of him. He had not been arrested, nor had he been

subjected to solitary confinement, investigations, electric machines,

continuous foot-baths in underground cells, or other pleasantries that

are well-known to certain folk who call themselves civilized. His

friends, that is, those who had been his friends--for the good man

had denied all his Filipino friends from the instant when they were

suspected by the government--had also returned to their homes after a

few days' vacation in the state edifices. The Captain-General himself

had ordered that they be cast out from his precincts, not considering

them worthy of remaining therein, to the great disgust of the one-armed

individual, who had hoped to celebrate the approaching Christmas in

their abundant and opulent company.

Capitan Tinong had returned to his home sick, pale, and swollen; the

excursion had not done him good. He was so changed that he said not

a word, nor even greeted his family, who wept, laughed, chattered,

and almost went mad with joy. The poor man no longer ventured out

of his house for fear of running the risk of saying good-day to a

filibuster. Not even Don Primitivo himself, with all the wisdom of

the ancients, could draw him out of his silence.

"_Crede, prime_," the Latinist told him, "if I hadn't got here to

burn all your papers, they would have squeezed your neck; and if I

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.