Chapter Chapter 4 · Chapter IV

Heretic and Filibuster

Ibarra stood undecided for a moment. The night breeze, which during

those months blows cool enough in Manila, seemed to drive from his

forehead the light cloud that had darkened it. He took off his hat and

drew a deep breath. Carriages flashed by, public rigs moved along at a

sleepy pace, pedestrians of many nationalities were passing. He walked

along at that irregular pace which indicates thoughtful abstraction

or freedom from care, directing his steps toward Binondo Plaza and

looking about him as if to recall the place. There were the same

streets and the identical houses with their white and blue walls,

whitewashed, or frescoed in bad imitation of granite; the church

continued to show its illuminated clock face; there were the same

Chinese shops with their soiled curtains and their iron gratings, in

one of which was a bar that he, in imitation of the street urchins of

Manila, had twisted one night; it was still unstraightened. "How slowly

everything moves," he murmured as he turned into Calle Sacristia. The

ice-cream venders were repeating the same shrill cry, "_Sorbeteee!_"

while the smoky lamps still lighted the identical Chinese stands and

those of the old women who sold candy and fruit.

"Wonderful!" he exclaimed. "There's the same Chinese who was here

seven years ago, and that old woman--the very same! It might be said

that tonight I've dreamed of a seven years' journey in Europe. Good

heavens, that pavement is still in the same unrepaired condition

as when I left!" True it was that the stones of the sidewalk on the

corner of San Jacinto and Sacristia were still loose.

While he was meditating upon this marvel of the city's stability in

a country where everything is so unstable, a hand was placed lightly

on his shoulder. He raised his head to see the old lieutenant gazing

at him with something like a smile in place of the hard expression

and the frown which usually characterized him.

"Young man, be careful! Learn from your father!" was the abrupt

greeting of the old soldier.

"Pardon me, but you seem to have thought a great deal of my father. Can

you tell me how he died?" asked Ibarra, staring at him.

"What! Don't you know about it?" asked the officer.

"I asked Don Santiago about it, but he wouldn't promise to tell me

until tomorrow. Perhaps you know?"

"I should say I do, as does everybody else. He died in prison!"

The young man stepped backward a pace and gazed searchingly at the

lieutenant. "In prison? Who died in prison?"

"Your father, man, since he was in confinement," was the somewhat

surprised answer.

"My father--in prison--confined in a prison? What are you talking

about? Do you know who my father was? Are you--?" demanded the young

man, seizing the officer's arm.

"I rather think that I'm not mistaken. He was Don Rafael Ibarra."

"Yes, Don Rafael Ibarra," echoed the youth weakly.

"Well, I thought you knew about it," muttered the soldier in a

tone of compassion as he saw what was passing in Ibarra's mind. "I

supposed that you--but be brave! Here one cannot be honest and keep

out of jail."

"I must believe that you are not joking with me," replied Ibarra in

a weak voice, after a few moments' silence. "Can you tell me why he

was in prison?"

The old man seemed to be perplexed. "It's strange to me that your

family affairs were not made known to you."

"His last letter, a year ago, said that I should not be uneasy if

he did not write, as he was very busy. He charged me to continue my

studies and--sent me his blessing."

"Then he wrote that letter to you just before he died. It will soon

be a year since we buried him."

"But why was my father a prisoner?"

"For a very honorable reason. But come with me to the barracks and

I'll tell you as we go along. Take my arm."

They moved along for some time in silence. The elder seemed to be in

deep thought and to be seeking inspiration from his goatee, which he

stroked continually.

"As you well know," he began, "your father was the richest man in

the province, and while many loved and respected him, there were

also some who envied and hated him. We Spaniards who come to the

Philippines are unfortunately not all we ought to be. I say this as

much on account of one of your ancestors as on account of your father's

enemies. The continual changes, the corruption in the higher circles,

the favoritism, the low cost and the shortness of the journey, are to

blame for it all. The worst characters of the Peninsula come here,

and even if a good man does come, the country soon ruins him. So it

was that your father had a number of enemies among the curates and

other Spaniards."

Here he hesitated for a while. "Some months after your departure the

troubles with Padre Damaso began, but I am unable to explain the real

cause of them. Fray Damaso accused him of not coming to confession,

although he had not done so formerly and they had nevertheless been

good friends, as you may still remember. Moreover, Don Rafael was a

very upright man, more so than many of those who regularly attend

confession and than the confessors themselves. He had framed for

himself a rigid morality and often said to me, when he talked of

these troubles, 'Señor Guevara, do you believe that God will pardon

any crime, a murder for instance, solely by a man's telling it to a

priest--a man after all and one whose duty it is to keep quiet about

it--by his fearing that he will roast in hell as a penance--by being

cowardly and certainly shameless into the bargain? I have another

conception of God,' he used to say, 'for in my opinion one evil does

not correct another, nor is a crime to be expiated by vain lamentings

or by giving alms to the Church. Take this example: if I have killed

the father of a family, if I have made of a woman a sorrowing widow

and destitute orphans of some happy children, have I satisfied eternal

Justice by letting myself be hanged, or by entrusting my secret to one

who is obliged to guard it for me, or by giving alms to priests who

are least in need of them, or by buying indulgences and lamenting

night and day? What of the widow and the orphans? My conscience

tells me that I should try to take the place of him whom I killed,

that I should dedicate my whole life to the welfare of the family

whose misfortunes I caused. But even so, who can replace the love of

a husband and a father?' Thus your father reasoned and by this strict

standard of conduct regulated all his actions, so that it can be said

that he never injured anybody. On the contrary, he endeavored by his

good deeds to wipe out some injustices which he said your ancestors

had committed. But to get back to his troubles with the curate--these

took on a serious aspect. Padre Damaso denounced him from the pulpit,

and that he did not expressly name him was a miracle, since anything

might have been expected of such a character. I foresaw that sooner

or later the affair would have serious results."

Again the old lieutenant paused. "There happened to be wandering about

the province an ex-artilleryman who has been discharged from the army

on account of his stupidity and ignorance. As the man had to live and

he was not permitted to engage in manual labor, which would injure

our prestige, he somehow or other obtained a position as collector of

the tax on vehicles. The poor devil had no education at all, a fact of

which the natives soon became aware, as it was a marvel for them to see

a Spaniard who didn't know how to read and write. Every one ridiculed

him and the payment of the tax was the occasion of broad smiles. He

knew that he was an object of ridicule and this tended to sour his

disposition even more, rough and bad as it had formerly been. They

would purposely hand him the papers upside down to see his efforts

to read them, and wherever he found a blank space he would scribble

a lot of pothooks which rather fitly passed for his signature. The

natives mocked while they paid him. He swallowed his pride and made

the collections, but was in such a state of mind that he had no respect

for any one. He even came to have some hard words with your father.

"One day it happened that he was in a shop turning a document over and

over in the effort to get it straight when a schoolboy began to make

signs to his companions and to point laughingly at the collector with

his finger. The fellow heard the laughter and saw the joke reflected

in the solemn faces of the bystanders. He lost his patience and,

turning quickly, started to chase the boys, who ran away shouting _ba,

be, bi, bo, bu_. [30] Blind with rage and unable to catch them, he

threw his cane and struck one of the boys on the head, knocking him

down. He ran up and began to kick the fallen boy, and none of those

who had been laughing had the courage to interfere. Unfortunately,

your father happened to come along just at that time. He ran forward

indignantly, caught the collector by the arm, and reprimanded him

severely. The artilleryman, who was no doubt beside himself with rage,

raised his hand, but your father was too quick for him, and with the

strength of a descendant of the Basques--some say that he struck him,

others that he merely pushed him, but at any rate the man staggered

and fell a little way off, striking his head against a stone. Don

Rafael quietly picked the wounded boy up and carried him to the town

hall. The artilleryman bled freely from the mouth and died a few

moments later without recovering consciousness.

"As was to be expected, the authorities intervened and arrested

your father. All his hidden enemies at once rose up and false

accusations came from all sides. He was accused of being a heretic

and a filibuster. To be a heretic is a great danger anywhere,

but especially so at that time when the province was governed by an

alcalde who made a great show of his piety, who with his servants used

to recite his rosary in the church in a loud voice, perhaps that all

might hear and pray with him. But to be a filibuster is worse than

to be a heretic and to kill three or four tax-collectors who know

how to read, write, and attend to business. Every one abandoned him,

and his books and papers were seized. He was accused of subscribing to

_El Correo de Ultramar_, and to newspapers from Madrid, of having sent

you to Germany, of having in his possession letters and a photograph

of a priest who had been legally executed, and I don't know what

not. Everything served as an accusation, even the fact that he, a

descendant of Peninsulars, wore a camisa. Had it been any one but

your father, it is likely that he would soon have been set free,

as there was a physician who ascribed the death of the unfortunate

collector to a hemorrhage. But his wealth, his confidence in the law,

and his hatred of everything that was not legal and just, wrought his

undoing. In spite of my repugnance to asking for mercy from any one,

I applied personally to the Captain-General--the predecessor of our

present one--and urged upon him that there could not be anything of

the filibuster about a man who took up with all the Spaniards, even

the poor emigrants, and gave them food and shelter, and in whose

veins yet flowed the generous blood of Spain. It was in vain that

I pledged my life and swore by my poverty and my military honor. I

succeeded only in being coldly listened to and roughly sent away with

the epithet of _chiflado_." [31]

The old man paused to take a deep breath, and after noticing the

silence of his companion, who was listening with averted face,

continued: "At your father's request I prepared the defense in the

case. I went first to the celebrated Filipino lawyer, young A----,

but he refused to take the case. 'I should lose it,' he told me,

'and my defending him would furnish the motive for another charge

against him and perhaps one against me. Go to Señor M----, who is a

forceful and fluent speaker and a Peninsular of great influence.' I

did so, and the noted lawyer took charge of the case, and conducted it

with mastery and brilliance. But your father's enemies were numerous,

some of them hidden and unknown. False witnesses abounded, and their

calumnies, which under other circumstances would have melted away

before a sarcastic phrase from the defense, here assumed shape and

substance. If the lawyer succeeded in destroying the force of their

testimony by making them contradict each other and even perjure

themselves, new charges were at once preferred. They accused him of

having illegally taken possession of a great deal of land and demanded

damages. They said that he maintained relations with the tulisanes in

order that his crops and animals might not be molested by them. At

last the case became so confused that at the end of a year no one

understood it. The alcalde had to leave and there came in his place

one who had the reputation of being honest, but unfortunately he stayed

only a few months, and his successor was too fond of good horses.

"The sufferings, the worries, the hard life in the prison, or the pain

of seeing so much ingratitude, broke your father's iron constitution

and he fell ill with that malady which only the tomb can cure. When

the case was almost finished and he was about to be acquitted of the

charge of being an enemy of the fatherland and of being the murderer

of the tax-collector, he died in the prison with no one at his side. I

arrived just in time to see him breathe his last."

The old lieutenant became silent, but still Ibarra said nothing. They

had arrived meanwhile at the door of the barracks, so the soldier

stopped and said, as he grasped the youth's hand, "Young man, for

details ask Capitan Tiago. Now, good night, as I must return to duty

and see that all's well."

Silently, but with great feeling, Ibarra shook the lieutenant's bony

hand and followed him with his eyes until he disappeared. Then he

turned slowly and signaled to a passing carriage. "To Lala's Hotel,"

was the direction he gave in a scarcely audible voice.

"This fellow must have just got out of jail," thought the cochero as

he whipped up his horses.