Bab Bab 7 · Chapter VII

An Idyl on an Azotea

The Song of Songs, which is Solomon's.

That morning Aunt Isabel and Maria Clara went early to mass,

the latter elegantly dressed and wearing a rosary of blue beads,

which partly served as a bracelet for her, and the former with her

spectacles in order to read her _Anchor of Salvation_ during the holy

communion. Scarcely had the priest disappeared from the altar when the

maiden expressed a desire for returning home, to the great surprise and

displeasure of her good aunt, who believed her niece to be as pious

and devoted to praying as a nun, at least. Grumbling and crossing

herself, the good old lady rose. "The good Lord will forgive me, Aunt

Isabel, since He must know the hearts of girls better than you do,"

Maria Clara might have said to check the severe yet maternal chidings.

After they had breakfasted, Maria Clara consumed her impatience in

working at a silk purse while her aunt was trying to clean up the

traces of the former night's revelry by swinging a feather duster

about. Capitan Tiago was busy looking over some papers. Every noise in

the street, every carriage that passed, caused the maiden to tremble

and quickened the beatings of her heart. Now she wished that she were

back in the quiet convent among her friends; there she could have seen

him without emotion and agitation! But was he not the companion of her

infancy, had they not played together and even quarreled at times? The

reason for all this I need not explain; if you, O reader, have ever

loved, you will understand; and if you have not, it is useless for

me to tell you, as the uninitiated do not comprehend these mysteries.

"I believe, Maria, that the doctor is right," said Capitan Tiago. "You

ought to go into the country, for you are pale and need fresh air. What

do you think of Malabon or San Diego?" At the mention of the latter

place Maria Clara blushed like a poppy and was unable to answer.

"You and Isabel can go at once to the convent to get your clothes

and to say good-by to your friends," he continued, without raising

his head. "You will not stay there any longer."

The girl felt the vague sadness that possesses the mind when we leave

forever a place where we have been happy, but another thought softened

this sorrow.

"In four or five days, after you get some new clothes made, we'll

go to Malabon. Your godfather is no longer in San Diego. The priest

that you may have noticed here last night, that young padre, is the

new curate whom we have there, and he is a saint."

"I think that San Diego would be better, cousin," observed Aunt

Isabel. "Besides, our house there is better and the time for the

fiesta draws near."

Maria Clara wanted to embrace her aunt for this speech, but hearing

a carriage stop, she turned pale.

"Ah, very true," answered Capitan Tiago, and then in a different tone

he exclaimed, "Don Crisostomo!"

The maiden let her sewing fall from her hands and wished to move but

could not--a violent tremor ran through her body. Steps were heard

on the stairway and then a fresh, manly voice. As if that voice had

some magic power, the maiden controlled her emotion and ran to hide

in the oratory among the saints. The two cousins laughed, and Ibarra

even heard the noise of the door closing. Pale and breathing rapidly,

the maiden pressed her beating heart and tried to listen. She heard

his voice, that beloved voice that for so long a time she had heard

only in her dreams he was asking for her! Overcome with joy, she

kissed the nearest saint, which happened to be St. Anthony the Abbot,

a saint happy in flesh and in wood, ever the object of pleasing

temptations! Afterwards she sought the keyhole in order to see and

examine him. She smiled, and when her aunt snatched her from that

position she unconsciously threw her arms around the old lady's neck

and rained kisses upon her.

"Foolish child, what's the matter with you?" the old lady was at last

able to say as she wiped a tear from her faded eyes. Maria Clara felt

ashamed and covered her eyes with her plump arm.

"Come on, get ready, come!" added the old aunt fondly. "While he is

talking to your father about you. Come, don't make him wait." Like

a child the maiden obediently followed her and they shut themselves

up in her chamber.

Capitan Tiago and Ibarra were conversing in a lively manner when Aunt

Isabel appeared half dragging her niece, who was looking in every

direction except toward the persons in the room.

What said those two souls communicating through the language of the

eyes, more perfect than that of the lips, the language given to the

soul in order that sound may not mar the ecstasy of feeling? In such

moments, when the thoughts of two happy beings penetrate into each

other's souls through the eyes, the spoken word is halting, rude, and

weak--it is as the harsh, slow roar of the thunder compared with the

rapidity of the dazzling lightning flash, expressing feelings already

recognized, ideas already understood, and if words are made use of

it is only because the heart's desire, dominating all the being and

flooding it with happiness, wills that the whole human organism with

all its physical and psychical powers give expression to the song of

joy that rolls through the soul. To the questioning glance of love,

as it flashes out and then conceals itself, speech has no reply;

the smile, the kiss, the sigh answer.

Soon the two lovers, fleeing from the dust raised by Aunt Isabel's

broom, found themselves on the azotea where they could commune in

liberty among the little arbors. What did they tell each other in

murmurs that you nod your heads, O little red cypress flowers? Tell

it, you who have fragrance in your breath and color on your lips. And

thou, O zephyr, who learnest rare harmonies in the stillness of the

dark night amid the hidden depths of our virgin forests! Tell it,

O sunbeams, brilliant manifestation upon earth of the Eternal, sole

immaterial essence in a material world, you tell it, for I only know

how to relate prosaic commonplaces. But since you seem unwilling to

do so, I am going to try myself.

The sky was blue and a fresh breeze, not yet laden with the fragrance

of roses, stirred the leaves and flowers of the vines; that is why

the cypresses, the orchids, the dried fishes, and the Chinese lanterns

were trembling. The splash of paddles in the muddy waters of the river

and the rattle of carriages and carts passing over the Binondo bridge

came up to them distinctly, although they did not hear what the old

aunt murmured as she saw where they were: "That's better, there you'll

be watched by the whole neighborhood." At first they talked nonsense,

giving utterance only to those sweet inanities which are so much like

the boastings of the nations of Europe--pleasing and honey-sweet at

home, but causing foreigners to laugh or frown.

She, like a sister of Cain, was of course jealous and asked her

sweetheart, "Have you always thought of me? Have you never forgotten me

on all your travels in the great cities among so many beautiful women?"

He, too, was a brother of Cain, and sought to evade such questions,

making use of a little fiction. "Could I forget you?" he answered

as he gazed enraptured into her dark eyes. "Could I be faithless

to my oath, my sacred oath? Do you remember that stormy night when

you saw me weeping alone by the side of my dead mother and, drawing

near to me, you put your hand on my shoulder, that hand which for so

long a time you had not allowed me to touch, saying to me, 'You have

lost your mother while I never had one,' and you wept with me? You

loved her and she looked upon you as a daughter. Outside it rained

and the lightning flashed, but within I seemed to hear music and to

see a smile on the pallid face of the dead. Oh, that my parents were

alive and might behold you now! I then caught your hand along with

the hand of my mother and swore to love you and to make you happy,

whatever fortune Heaven might have in store for me; and that oath,

which has never weighed upon me as a burden, I now renew!

"Could I forget you? The thought of you has ever been with me,

strengthening me amid the dangers of travel, and has been a comfort

to my soul's loneliness in foreign lands. The thoughts of you

have neutralized the lotus-effect of Europe, which erases from the

memories of so many of our countrymen the hopes and misfortunes of our

fatherland. In dreams I saw you standing on the shore at Manila, gazing

at the far horizon wrapped in the warm light of the early dawn. I heard

the slow, sad song that awoke in me sleeping affections and called

back to the memory of my heart the first years of our childhood, our

joys, our pleasures, and all that happy past which you gave life to

while you were in our town. It seemed to me that you were the fairy,

the spirit, the poetic incarnation of my fatherland, beautiful,

unaffected, lovable, frank, a true daughter of the Philippines,

that beautiful land which unites with the imposing virtues of the

mother country, Spain, the admirable qualities of a young people,

as you unite in your being all that is beautiful and lovely, the

inheritance of both races" so indeed the love of you and that of my

fatherland have become fused into one.

"Could I forget you? Many times have I thought that I heard the

sound of your piano and the accents of your voice. When in Germany,

as I wandered at twilight in the woods, peopled with the fantastic

creations of its poets and the mysterious legends of past generations,

always I called upon your name, imagining that I saw you in the mists

that rose from the depths of the valley, or I fancied that I heard

your voice in the rustling of the leaves. When from afar I heard the

songs of the peasants as they returned from their labors, it seemed to

me that their tones harmonized with my inner voices, that they were

singing for _you_, and thus they lent reality to my illusions and

dreams. At times I became lost among the mountain paths and while the

night descended slowly, as it does there, I would find myself still

wandering, seeking my way among the pines and beeches and oaks. Then

when some scattering rays of moonlight slipped down into the clear

spaces left in the dense foliage, I seemed to see you in the heart of

the forest as a dim, loving shade wavering about between the spots of

light and shadow. If perhaps the nightingale poured forth his varied

trills, I fancied it was because he saw you and was inspired by you.

"Have I thought of you? The fever of love not only gave warmth to the

snows but colored the ice! The beautiful skies of Italy with their

clear depths reminded me of your eyes, its sunny landscape spoke to

me of your smile; the plains of Andalusia with their scent-laden

airs, peopled with oriental memories, full of romance and color,

told me of your love! On dreamy, moonlit nights, while boating oil

the Rhine, I have asked myself if my fancy did not deceive me as I

saw you among the poplars on the banks, on the rocks of the Lorelei,

or in the midst of the waters, singing in the silence of the night

as if you were a comforting fairy maiden sent to enliven the solitude

and sadness of those ruined castles!"

"I have not traveled like you, so I know only your town and Manila and

Antipolo," she answered with a smile which showed that she believed

all he said. "But since I said good-by to you and entered the convent,

I have always thought of you and have only put you out of my mind

when ordered to do so by my confessor, who imposed many penances upon

me. I recalled our games and our quarrels when we were children. You

used to pick up the most beautiful shells and search in the river

for the roundest and smoothest pebbles of different colors that we

might play games with them. You were very stupid and always lost,

and by way of a forfeit I would slap you with the palm of my hand,

but I always tried not to strike you hard, for I had pity on you. In

those games you cheated much, even more than I did, and we used to

finish our play in a quarrel. Do you remember that time when you

became really angry at me? Then you made me suffer, but afterwards,

when I thought of it in the convent, I smiled and longed for you so

that we might quarrel again--so that we might once more make up. We

were still children and had gone with your mother to bathe in the brook

under the shade of the thick bamboo. On the banks grew many flowers

and plants whose strange names you told me in Latin and Spanish, for

you were even then studying in the Ateneo. [44] I paid no attention,

but amused myself by running after the needle-like dragon-flies and

the butterflies with their rainbow colors and tints of mother-of-pearl

as they swarmed about among the flowers. Sometimes I tried to surprise

them with my hands or to catch the little fishes that slipped rapidly

about amongst the moss and stones in the edge of the water. Once you

disappeared suddenly and when you returned you brought a crown of

leaves and orange blossoms, which you placed upon my head, calling me

Chloe. For yourself you made one of vines. But your mother snatched

away my crown, and after mashing it with a stone mixed it with the

_gogo_ with which she was going to wash our heads. The tears came into

your eyes and you said that she did not understand mythology. 'Silly

boy,' your mother exclaimed, 'you'll see how sweet your hair will

smell afterwards.' I laughed, but you were offended and would not talk

with me, and for the rest of the day appeared so serious that then

I wanted to cry. On our way back to the town through the hot sun,

I picked some sage leaves that grew beside the path and gave them

to you to put in your hat so that you might not get a headache. You

smiled and caught my hand, and we made up."

Ibarra smiled with happiness as he opened his pocketbook and took from

it a piece of paper in which were wrapped some dry, blackened leaves

which gave off a sweet odor. "Your sage leaves," he said, in answer

to her inquiring look. "This is all that you have ever given me."

She in turn snatched from her bosom a little pouch of white

satin. "You must not touch this," she said, tapping the palm of his

hand lightly. "It's a letter of farewell."

"The one I wrote to you before leaving?"

"Have you ever written me any other, sir?"

"And what did I say to you then?"

"Many fibs, excuses of a delinquent debtor," she answered smilingly,

thus giving him to understand how sweet to her those fibs were. "Be

quiet now and I'll read it to you. I'll leave out your fine phrases

in order not to make a martyr of you."

Raising the paper to the height of her eyes so that the youth might

not see her face, she began: "'_My_'--but I'll not read what follows

that because it's not true."

Her eyes ran along some lines.

"'My father wishes me to go away, in spite of all my pleadings. 'You

are a man now,' he told me, 'and you must think about your future

and about your duties. You must learn the science of life, a thing

which your fatherland cannot teach you, so that you may some day be

useful to it. If you remain here in my shadow, in this environment

of business affairs, you will not learn to look far ahead. The

day in which you lose me you will find yourself like the plant

of which our poet Baltazar tells: grown in the water, its leaves

wither at the least scarcity of moisture and a moment's heat dries

it up. Don't you understand? You are almost a young man, and yet you

weep!' These reproaches hurt me and I confessed that I loved you. My

father reflected for a time in silence and then, placing his hand on

my shoulder, said in a trembling voice, 'Do you think that you alone

know how to love, that your father does not love you, and that he will

not feel the separation from you? It is only a short time since we

lost your mother, and I must journey on alone toward old age, toward

the very time of life when I would seek help and comfort from your

youth, yet I accept my loneliness, hardly knowing whether I shall

ever see you again. But you must think of other and greater things;

the future lies open before you, while for me it is already passing

behind; your love is just awakening, while mine is dying; fire burns

in your blood, while the chill is creeping into mine. Yet you weep

and cannot sacrifice the present for the future, useful as it may be

alike to yourself and to your country.' My father's eyes filled with

tears and I fell upon my knees at his feet, I embraced him, I begged

his forgiveness, and I assured him that I was ready to set out--'"

Ibarra's growing agitation caused her to suspend the reading, for he

had grown pale and was pacing back and forth.

"What's the matter? What is troubling you?" she asked him.

"You have almost made me forget that I have my duties, that I must

leave at once for the town. Tomorrow is the day for commemorating

the dead."

Maria Clara silently fixed her large dreamy eyes upon him for a few

moments and then, picking some flowers, she said with emotion, "Go,

I won't detain you longer! In a few days we shall see each other

again. Lay these flowers on the tomb of your parents."

A few moments later the youth descended the stairway accompanied by

Capitan Tiago and Aunt Isabel, while Maria Clara shut herself up in

the oratory.

"Please tell Andeng to get the house ready, as Maria and Isabel are

coming. A pleasant journey!" said Capitan Tiago as Ibarra stepped into

the carriage, which at once started in the direction of the plaza of

San Gabriel.

Afterwards, by way of consolation, her father said to Maria Clara, who

was weeping beside an image of the Virgin, "Come, light two candles

worth two reals each, one to St. Roch, [45] and one to St. Raphael,

the protector of travelers. Light the lamp of Our Lady of Peace and

Prosperous Voyages, since there are so many tulisanes. It's better

to spend four reals for wax and six cuartos for oil now than to pay

a big ransom later."