Chapter Chapter 2 · Chapter II

Crisostomo Ibarra

It was not two beautiful and well-gowned young women that attracted

the attention of all, even including Fray Sibyla, nor was it his

Excellency the Captain-General with his staff, that the lieutenant

should start from his abstraction and take a couple of steps forward,

or that Fray Damaso should look as if turned to stone; it was simply

the original of the oil-painting leading by the hand a young man

dressed in deep mourning.

"Good evening, gentlemen! Good evening, Padre!" were the greetings

of Capitan Tiago as he kissed the hands of the priests, who forgot

to bestow upon him their benediction. The Dominican had taken off

his glasses to stare at the newly arrived youth, while Fray Damaso

was pale and unnaturally wide-eyed.

"I have the honor of presenting to you Don Crisostomo Ibarra, the son

of my deceased friend," went on Capitan Tiago. "The young gentleman

has just arrived from Europe and I went to meet him."

At the mention of the name exclamations were heard. The lieutenant

forgot to pay his respects to his host and approached the young man,

looking him over from head to foot. The young man himself at that

moment was exchanging the conventional greetings with all in the group,

nor did there seem to be any thing extraordinary about him except

his mourning garments in the center of that brilliantly lighted

room. Yet in spite of them his remarkable stature, his features,

and his movements breathed forth an air of healthy youthfulness in

which both body and mind had equally developed. There might have been

noticed in his frank, pleasant face some faint traces of Spanish

blood showing through a beautiful brown color, slightly flushed at

the cheeks as a result perhaps of his residence in cold countries.

"What!" he exclaimed with joyful surprise, "the curate of my native

town! Padre Damaso, my father's intimate friend!"

Every look in the room was directed toward the Franciscan, who made

no movement.

"Pardon me, perhaps I'm mistaken," added Ibarra, embarrassed.

"You are not mistaken," the friar was at last able to articulate in a

changed voice, "but your father was never an intimate friend of mine."

Ibarra slowly withdrew his extended hand, looking greatly surprised,

and turned to encounter the gloomy gaze of the lieutenant fixed on him.

"Young man, are you the son of Don Rafael Ibarra?" he asked.

The youth bowed. Fray Damaso partly rose in his chair and stared

fixedly at the lieutenant.

"Welcome back to your country! And may you be happier in it than your

father was!" exclaimed the officer in a trembling voice. "I knew him

well and can say that he was one of the worthiest and most honorable

men in the Philippines."

"Sir," replied Ibarra, deeply moved, "the praise you bestow upon my

father removes my doubts about the manner of his death, of which I,

his son, am yet ignorant."

The eyes of the old soldier filled with tears and turning away hastily

he withdrew. The young man thus found himself alone in the center

of the room. His host having disappeared, he saw no one who might

introduce him to the young ladies, many of whom were watching him

with interest. After a few moments of hesitation he started toward

them in a simple and natural manner.

"Allow me," he said, "to overstep the rules of strict etiquette. It

has been seven years since I have been in my own country and upon

returning to it I cannot suppress my admiration and refrain from

paying my respects to its most precious ornaments, the ladies."

But as none of them ventured a reply, he found himself obliged to

retire. He then turned toward a group of men who, upon seeing him

approach, arranged themselves in a semicircle.

"Gentlemen," he addressed them, "it is a custom in Germany,

when a stranger finds himself at a function and there is no one to

introduce him to those present, that he give his name and so introduce

himself. Allow me to adopt this usage here, not to introduce foreign

customs when our own are so beautiful, but because I find myself driven

to it by necessity. I have already paid my respects to the skies and

to the ladies of my native land; now I wish to greet its citizens,

my fellow-countrymen. Gentlemen, my name is Juan Crisostomo Ibarra

y Magsalin."

The others gave their names, more or less obscure, and unimportant

here.

"My name is A----," said one youth dryly, as he made a slight bow.

"Then I have the honor of addressing the poet whose works have done

so much to keep up my enthusiasm for my native land. It is said that

you do not write any more, but I could not learn the reason."

"The reason? Because one does not seek inspiration in order to debase

himself and lie. One writer has been imprisoned for having put a

very obvious truth into verse. They may have called me a poet but

they sha'n't call me a fool."

"And may I enquire what that truth was?"

"He said that the lion's son is also a lion. He came very near to being

exiled for it," replied the strange youth, moving away from the group.

A man with a smiling face, dressed in the fashion of the natives

of the country, with diamond studs in his shirt-bosom, came up at

that moment almost running. He went directly to Ibarra and grasped

his hand, saying, "Señor Ibarra, I've been eager to make your

acquaintance. Capitan Tiago is a friend of mine and I knew your

respected father. I am known as Capitan Tinong and live in Tondo,

where you will always be welcome. I hope that you will honor me with a

visit. Come and dine with us tomorrow." He smiled and rubbed his hands.

"Thank you," replied Ibarra, warmly, charmed with such amiability,

"but tomorrow morning I must leave for San Diego."

"How unfortunate! Then it will be on your return."

"Dinner is served!" announced a waiter from the café La Campana, and

the guests began to file out toward the table, the women, especially

the Filipinas, with great hesitation.