Kabanata Kabanata 36 · BEN-ZAYB’S AFFLICTIONS

Immediately upon hearing of the incident, after lights had been brought

and the scarcely dignified attitudes of the startled gods revealed,

Ben-Zayb, filled with holy indignation, and with the approval of the

press-censor secured beforehand, hastened home—an entresol where he

lived in a mess with others—to write an article that would be the

sublimest ever penned under the skies of the Philippines. The

Captain-General would leave disconsolate if he did not first enjoy his

dithyrambs, and this Ben-Zayb, in his kindness of heart, could not

allow. Hence he sacrificed the dinner and ball, nor did he sleep that

night.

Sonorous exclamations of horror, of indignation, to fancy that the

world was smashing to pieces and the stars, the eternal stars, were

clashing together! Then a mysterious introduction, filled with

allusions, veiled hints, then an account of the affair, and the final

peroration. He multiplied the flourishes and exhausted all his

euphemisms in describing the drooping shoulders and the tardy baptism

of salad his Excellency had received on his Olympian brow, he eulogized

the agility with which the General had recovered a vertical position,

placing his head where his legs had been, and vice versa, then intoned

a hymn to Providence for having so solicitously guarded those sacred

bones. The paragraph turned out to be so perfect that his Excellency

appeared as a hero, and fell higher, as Victor Hugo said.

He wrote, erased, added, and polished, so that, without wanting in

veracity—this was his special merit as a journalist—the whole would be

an epic, grand for the seven gods, cowardly and base for the unknown

thief, “who had executed himself, terror-stricken, and in the very act

convinced of the enormity of his crime.”

He explained Padre Irene’s act of plunging under the table as “an

impulse of innate valor, which the habit of a God of peace and

gentleness, worn throughout a whole life, had been unable to

extinguish,” for Padre Irene had tried to hurl himself upon the thief

and had taken a straight course along the submensal route. In passing,

he spoke of submarine passages, mentioned a project of Don Custodio’s,

called attention to the liberal education and wide travels of the

priest. Padre Salvi’s swoon was the excessive sorrow that took

possession of the virtuous Franciscan to see the little fruit borne

among the Indians by his pious sermons, while the immobility and fright

of the other guests, among them the Countess, who “sustained” Padre

Salvi (she grabbed him), were the serenity and sang-froid of heroes,

inured to danger in the performance of their duties, beside whom the

Roman senators surprised by the Gallic invaders were nervous

schoolgirls frightened at painted cockroaches.

Afterwards, to form a contrast, the picture of the thief: fear,

madness, confusion, the fierce look, the distorted features, and—force

of moral superiority in the race—his religious awe to see assembled

there such august personages! Here came in opportunely a long

imprecation, a harangue, a diatribe against the perversion of good

customs, hence the necessity of a permanent military tribunal, “a

declaration of martial law within the limits already so declared,

special legislation, energetic and repressive, because it is in every

way needful, it is of imperative importance to impress upon the

malefactors and criminals that if the heart is generous and paternal

for those who are submissive and obedient to the law, the hand is

strong, firm, inexorable, hard, and severe for those who against all

reason fail to respect it and who insult the sacred institutions of the

fatherland. Yes, gentlemen, this is demanded not only for the welfare

of these islands, not only for the welfare of all mankind, but also in

the name of Spain, the honor of the Spanish name, the prestige of the

Iberian people, because before all things else Spaniards we are, and

the flag of Spain,” etc.

He terminated the article with this farewell: “Go in peace, gallant

warrior, you who with expert hand have guided the destinies of this

country in such calamitous times! Go in peace to breathe the balmy

breezes of Manzanares! [73] We shall remain here like faithful

sentinels to venerate your memory, to admire your wise dispositions, to

avenge the infamous attempt upon your splendid gift, which we will

recover even if we have to dry up the seas! Such a precious relic will

be for this country an eternal monument to your splendor, your presence

of mind, your gallantry!”

In this rather confused way he concluded the article and before dawn

sent it to the printing-office, of course with the censor’s permit.

Then he went to sleep like Napoleon, after he had arranged the plan for

the battle of Jena.

But at dawn he was awakened to have the sheets of copy returned with a

note from the editor saying that his Excellency had positively and

severely forbidden any mention of the affair, and had further ordered

the denial of any versions and comments that might get abroad,

discrediting them as exaggerated rumors.

To Ben-Zayb this blow was the murder of a beautiful and sturdy child,

born and nurtured with such great pain and fatigue. Where now hurl the

Catilinarian pride, the splendid exhibition of warlike crime-avenging

materials? And to think that within a month or two he was going to

leave the Philippines, and the article could not be published in Spain,

since how could he say those things about the criminals of Madrid,

where other ideas prevailed, where extenuating circumstances were

sought, where facts were weighed, where there were juries, and so on?

Articles such as his were like certain poisonous rums that are

manufactured in Europe, good enough to be sold among the negroes, good

for negroes, [74] with the difference that if the negroes did not drink

them they would not be destroyed, while Ben-Zayb’s articles, whether

the Filipinos read them or not, had their effect.

“If only some other crime might be committed today or tomorrow,” he

mused.

With the thought of that child dead before seeing the light, those

frozen buds, and feeling his eyes fill with tears, he dressed himself

to call upon the editor. But the editor shrugged his shoulders; his

Excellency had forbidden it because if it should be divulged that seven

of the greater gods had let themselves be surprised and robbed by a

nobody, while they brandished knives and forks, that would endanger the

integrity of the fatherland! So he had ordered that no search be made

for the lamp or the thief, and had recommended to his successors that

they should not run the risk of dining in any private house, without

being surrounded by halberdiers and guards. As those who knew anything

about the events that night in Don Timoteo’s house were for the most

part military officials and government employees, it was not difficult

to suppress the affair in public, for it concerned the integrity of the

fatherland. Before this name Ben-Zayb bowed his head heroically,

thinking about Abraham, Guzman El Bueno, [75] or at least, Brutus and

other heroes of antiquity.

Such a sacrifice could not remain unrewarded, the gods of journalism

being pleased with Abraham Ben-Zayb. Almost upon the hour came the

reporting angel bearing the sacrificial lamb in the shape of an assault

committed at a country-house on the Pasig, where certain friars were

spending the heated season. Here was his opportunity and Ben-Zayb

praised his gods.

“The robbers got over two thousand pesos, leaving badly wounded one

friar and two servants. The curate defended himself as well as he could

behind a chair, which was smashed in his hands.”

“Wait, wait!” said Ben-Zayb, taking notes. “Forty or fifty outlaws

traitorously—revolvers, bolos, shotguns, pistols—lion at

bay—chair—splinters flying—barbarously wounded—ten thousand pesos!”

So great was his enthusiasm that he was not content with mere reports,

but proceeded in person to the scene of the crime, composing on the

road a Homeric description of the fight. A harangue in the mouth of the

leader? A scornful defiance on the part of the priest? All the

metaphors and similes applied to his Excellency, Padre Irene, and Padre

Salvi would exactly fit the wounded friar and the description of the

thief would serve for each of the outlaws. The imprecation could be

expanded, since he could talk of religion, of the faith, of charity, of

the ringing of bells, of what the Indians owed to the friars, he could

get sentimental and melt into Castelarian [76] epigrams and lyric

periods. The señoritas of the city would read the article and murmur,

“Ben-Zayb, bold as a lion and tender as a lamb!”

But when he reached the scene, to his great astonishment he learned

that the wounded friar was no other than Padre Camorra, sentenced by

his Provincial to expiate in the pleasant country-house on the banks of

the Pasig his pranks in Tiani. He had a slight scratch on his hand and

a bruise on his head received from flattening himself out on the floor.

The robbers numbered three or four, armed only with bolos, the sum

stolen fifty pesos!

“It won’t do!” exclaimed Ben-Zayb. “Shut up! You don’t know what you’re

talking about.”

“How don’t I know, puñales?”

“Don’t be a fool—the robbers must have numbered more.”

“You ink-slinger—”

So they had quite an altercation. What chiefly concerned Ben-Zayb was

not to throw away the article, to give importance to the affair, so

that he could use the peroration.

But a fearful rumor cut short their dispute. The robbers caught had

made some important revelations. One of the outlaws under Matanglawin

(Cabesang Tales) had made an appointment with them to join his band in

Santa Mesa, thence to sack the conventos and houses of the wealthy.

They would be guided by a Spaniard, tall and sunburnt, with white hair,

who said that he was acting under the orders of the General, whose

great friend he was, and they had been further assured that the

artillery and various regiments would join them, wherefore they were to

entertain no fear at all. The tulisanes would be pardoned and have a

third part of the booty assigned to them. The signal was to have been a

cannon-shot, but having waited for it in vain the tulisanes, thinking

themselves deceived, separated, some going back to their homes, some

returning to the mountains vowing vengeance on the Spaniard, who had

thus failed twice to keep his word. Then they, the robbers caught, had

decided to do something on their own account, attacking the

country-house that they found closest at hand, resolving religiously to

give two-thirds of the booty to the Spaniard with white hair, if

perchance he should call upon them for it.

The description being recognized as that of Simoun, the declaration was

received as an absurdity and the robber subjected to all kinds of

tortures, including the electric machine, for his impious blasphemy.

But news of the disappearance of the jeweler having attracted the

attention of the whole Escolta, and the sacks of powder and great

quantities of cartridges having been discovered in his house, the story

began to wear an appearance of truth. Mystery began to enwrap the

affair, enveloping it in clouds; there were whispered conversations,

coughs, suspicious looks, suggestive comments, and trite second-hand

remarks. Those who were on the inside were unable to get over their

astonishment, they put on long faces, turned pale, and but little was

wanting for many persons to lose their minds in realizing certain

things that had before passed unnoticed.

“We’ve had a narrow escape! Who would have said—”

In the afternoon Ben-Zayb, his pockets filled with revolvers and

cartridges, went to see Don Custodio, whom he found hard at work over a

project against American jewelers. In a hushed voice he whispered

between the palms of his hands into the journalist’s ear mysterious

words.

“Really?” questioned Ben-Zayb, slapping his hand on his pocket and

paling visibly.

“Wherever he may be found—” The sentence was completed with an

expressive pantomime. Don Custodio raised both arms to the height of

his face, with the right more bent than the left, turned the palms of

his hands toward the floor, closed one eye, and made two movements in

advance. “Ssh! Ssh!” he hissed.

“And the diamonds?” inquired Ben-Zayb.

“If they find him—” He went through another pantomime with the fingers

of his right hand, spreading them out and clenching them together like

the closing of a fan, clutching out with them somewhat in the manner of

the wings of a wind-mill sweeping imaginary objects toward itself with

practised skill. Ben-Zayb responded with another pantomime, opening his

eyes wide, arching his eyebrows and sucking in his breath eagerly as

though nutritious air had just been discovered.

“Sssh!”