Bab Bab 34 · Chapter XXXIV

The Dinner

There in the decorated kiosk the great men of the province were

dining. The alcalde occupied one end of the table and Ibarra the

other. At the young man's right sat Maria Clara and at his left

the escribano. Capitan Tiago, the alferez, the gobernadorcillo, the

friars, the employees, and the few young ladies who had remained sat,

not according to rank, but according to their inclinations. The meal

was quite animated and happy.

When the dinner was half over, a messenger came in search of Capitan

Tiago with a telegram, to open which he naturally requested the

permission of the others, who very naturally begged him to do so. The

worthy capitan at first knitted his eyebrows, then raised them;

his face became pale, then lighted up as he hastily folded the paper

and arose.

"Gentlemen," he announced in confusion, "his Excellency the

Captain-General is coming this evening to honor my house." Thereupon he

set off at a run, hatless, taking with him the message and his napkin.

He was followed by exclamations and questions, for a cry of

"Tulisanes!" would not have produced greater effect. "But,

listen!" "When is he coming?" "Tell us about it!" "His Excellency!" But

Capitan Tiago was already far away.

"His Excellency is coming and will stay at Capitan Tiago's!" exclaimed

some without taking into consideration the fact that his daughter

and future son-in-law were present.

"The choice couldn't be better," answered the latter.

The friars gazed at one another with looks that seemed to say: "The

Captain-General is playing another one of his tricks, he is slighting

us, for he ought to stay at the convento," but since this was the

thought of all they remained silent, none of them giving expression

to it.

"I was told of this yesterday," said the alcalde, "but at that time

his Excellency had not yet fully decided."

"Do you know, Señor Alcalde, how long the Captain-General thinks of

staying here?" asked the alferez uneasily.

"With certainty, no. His Excellency likes to give surprises."

"Here come some more messages." These were for the alcalde,

the alferez, and the gobernadorcillo, and contained the same

announcement. The friars noted well that none came directed to

the curate.

"His Excellency will arrive at four this afternoon,

gentlemen!" announced the alcalde solemnly. "So we can finish our meal

in peace." Leonidas at Thermopylae could not have said more cheerfully,

"Tonight we shall sup with Pluto!"

The conversation again resumed its ordinary course.

"I note the absence of our great preacher," timidly remarked an

employee of inoffensive aspect who had not opened his mouth up to

the time of eating, and who spoke now for the first time in the

whole morning.

All who knew the history of Crisostomo's father made a movement and

winked, as if to say, "Get out! Fools rush in--" But some one more

charitably disposed answered, "He must be rather tired."

"Rather?" exclaimed the alferez. "He must be exhausted, and as they

say here, all fagged out. What a sermon it was!"

"A splendid sermon--wonderful!" said the escribano.

"Magnificent--profound!" added the correspondent.

"To be able to talk so much, it's necessary to have the lungs that he

has," observed Padre Manuel Martin. The Augustinian did not concede

him anything more than lungs.

"And his fertility of expression!" added Padre Salvi.

"Do you know that Señor Ibarra has the best cook in the

province?" remarked the alcalde, to cut short such talk.

"You may well say that, but his beautiful neighbor doesn't wish to

honor the table, for she is scarcely eating a bite," observed one of

the employees.

Maria Clara blushed. "I thank the gentleman, he troubles himself too

much on my account," she stammered timidly, "but--"

"But you honor it enough merely by being present," concluded the

gallant alcalde as he turned to Padre Salvi.

"Padre," he said in a loud voice, "I've observed that during the

whole day your Reverence has been silent and thoughtful."

"The alcalde is a great observer," remarked Fray Sibyla in a meaning

tone.

"It's a habit of mine," stammered the Franciscan. "It pleases me more

to listen than to talk."

"Your Reverence always takes care to win and not to lose," said the

alferez in a jesting tone.

Padre Salvi, however, did not take this as a joke, for his gaze

brightened a moment as he replied, "The alferez knows very well these

days that I'm not the one who is winning or losing most."

The alferez turned the hit aside with a forced laugh, pretending not

to take it to himself.

"But, gentlemen, I don't understand how it is possible to talk

of winnings and losses," interposed the alcalde. "What will these

amiable and discreet young ladies who honor us with their company

think of us? For me the young women are like the Æolian harps in the

middle of the night--it is necessary to listen with close attention

in order that their ineffable harmonies may elevate the soul to the

celestial spheres of the infinite and the ideal!"

"Your Honor is becoming poetical!" exclaimed the escribano gleefully,

and both emptied their wine-glasses.

"I can't help it," said the alcalde as he wiped his lips. "Opportunity,

while it doesn't always make the thief, makes the poet. In my youth

I composed verses which were really not bad."

"So your Excellency has been unfaithful to the Muses to follow Themis,"

emphatically declared our mythical or mythological correspondent.

"Pshaw, what would you have? To run through the entire social scale

was always my dream. Yesterday I was gathering flowers and singing

songs, today I wield the rod of justice and serve Humanity, tomorrow--"

"Tomorrow your Honor will throw the rod into the fire to warm yourself

by it in the winter of life, and take an appointment in the cabinet,"

added Padre Sibyla.

"Pshaw! Yes--no--to be a cabinet official isn't exactly my beau-ideal:

any upstart may become one. A villa in the North in which to spend the

summer, a mansion in Madrid, and some property in Andalusia for the

winter--there we shall live remembering our beloved Philippines. Of

me Voltaire would not say, 'We have lived among these people only to

enrich ourselves and to calumniate them.'"

The alcalde quoted this in French, so the employees, thinking that

his Honor had cracked a joke, began to laugh in appreciation of

it. Some of the friars did likewise, since they did not know that

the Voltaire mentioned was the same Voltaire whom they had so often

cursed and consigned to hell. But Padre Sibyla was aware of it and

became serious from the belief that the alcalde had said something

heretical or impious.

In the other kiosk the children were eating under the direction of

their teacher. For Filipino children they were rather noisy, since

at the table and in the presence of other persons their sins are

generally more of omission than of commission. Perhaps one who was

using the tableware improperly would be corrected by his neighbor

and from this there would arise a noisy discussion in which each

would have his partisans. Some would say the spoon, others the knife

or the fork, and as no one was considered an authority there would

arise the contention that God is Christ or, more clearly, a dispute

of theologians. Their fathers and mothers winked, made signs, nudged

one another, and showed their happiness by their smiles.

"Ya!" exclaimed a countrywoman to an old man who was mashing buyo in

his _kalikut_, "in spite of the fact that my husband is opposed to it,

my Andoy shall be a priest. It's true that we're poor, but we'll work,

and if necessary we'll beg alms. There are not lacking those who will

give money so that the poor may take holy orders. Does not Brother

Mateo, a man who does not lie, say that Pope Sextus was a herder of

carabaos in Batangas? Well then, look at my Andoy, see if he hasn't

already the face of a St. Vincent!" The good mother watered at the

mouth to see her son take hold of a fork with both hands.

"God help us!" added the old man, rolling his quid of buyo. "If

Andoy gets to be Pope we'll go to Rome he, he! I can still walk well,

and if I die--he, he!"

"Don't worry, granddad! Andoy won't forget that you taught him how

to weave baskets."

"You're right, Petra. I also believe that your son will be great, at

least a patriarch. I have never seen any one who learned the business

in a shorter time. Yes, he'll remember me when as Pope or bishop he

entertains himself in making baskets for his cook. He'll then say

masses for my soul--he, he!" With this hope the good old man again

filled his _kalikut_ with buyo.

"If God hears my prayers and my hopes are fulfilled, I'll say to Andoy,

'Son, take away all our sins and send us to Heaven!' Then we shan't

need to pray and fast and buy indulgences. One whose son is a blessed

Pope can commit sins!"

"Send him to my house tomorrow, Petra," cried the old man

enthusiastically, "and I'll teach him to weave the _nito!_"

"Huh! Get out! What are you dreaming about, grand-dad? Do you still

think that the Popes even move their hands? The curate, being nothing

more than a curate, only works in the mass--when he turns around! The

Archbishop doesn't even turn around, for he says mass sitting down. So

the Pope--the Pope says it in bed with a fan! What are you thinking

about?"

"Of nothing more, Petra, than that he know how to weave the _nito_. It

would be well for him to be able to sell hats and cigar-cases so that

he wouldn't have to beg alms, as the curate does here every year in

the name of the Pope. It always fills me with compassion to see a

saint poor, so I give all my savings."

Another countryman here joined in the conversation, saying, "It's all

settled, cumare, [95] my son has got to be a doctor, there's nothing

like being a doctor!"

"Doctor! What are you talking about, cumpare?" retorted Petra. "There's

nothing like being a curate!"

"A curate, pish! A curate? The doctor makes lots of money, the sick

people worship him, cumare!"

"Excuse me! The curate, by making three or four turns and saying

_deminos pabiscum_, [96] eats God and makes money. All, even the women,

tell him their secrets."

"And the doctor? What do you think a doctor is? The doctor sees all

that the women have, he feels the pulses of the _dalagas!_ I'd just

like to be a doctor for a week!"

"And the curate, perhaps the curate doesn't see what your doctor

sees? Better still, you know the saying, 'the fattest chicken and

the roundest leg for the curate!'"

"What of that? Do the doctors eat dried fish? Do they soil their

fingers eating salt?"

"Does the curate dirty his hands as your doctors do? He has great

estates and when he works he works with music and has sacristans to

help him."

"But the confessing, cumare? Isn't that work?"

"No work about that! I'd just like to be confessing everybody! While

we work and sweat to find out what our own neighbors are doing,

the curate does nothing more than take a seat and they tell him

everything. Sometimes he falls asleep, but he lets out two or three

blessings and we are again the children of God! I'd just like to be

a curate for one evening in Lent!"

"But the preaching? You can't tell me that it's not work. Just look

how the fat curate was sweating this morning," objected the rustic,

who felt himself being beaten into retreat.

"Preaching! Work to preach! Where's your judgment? I'd just like to

be talking half a day from the pulpit, scolding and quarreling with

everybody, without any one daring to reply, and be getting paid for

it besides. I'd just like to be the curate for one morning when those

who are in debt to me are attending mass! Look there now, how Padre

Damaso gets fat with so much scolding and beating."

Padre Damaso was, indeed, approaching with the gait of a heavy

man. He was half smiling, but in such a malignant way that Ibarra,

upon seeing him, lost the thread of his talk. The padre was greeted

with some surprise but with signs of pleasure on the part of all

except Ibarra. They were then at the dessert and the champagne was

foaming in the glasses.

Padre Damaso's smile became nervous when he saw Maria Clara seated

at Crisostomo's right. He took a seat beside the alcalde and said in

the midst of a significant silence, "Were you discussing something,

gentlemen? Go ahead!"

"We were at the toasts," answered the alcalde. "Señor Ibarra was

mentioning all who have helped him in his philanthropic enterprise

and was speaking of the architect when your Reverence--"

"Well, I don't know anything about architecture," interrupted Padre

Damaso, "but I laugh at architects and the fools who employ them. Here

you have it--I drew the plan of this church and it's perfectly

constructed, so an English jeweler who stopped in the convento one

day assured me. To draw a plan one needs only to have two fingers'

breadth of forehead."

"Nevertheless," answered the alcalde, seeing that Ibarra was silent,

"when we consider certain buildings, as, for example, this schoolhouse,

we need an expert."

"Get out with your experts!" exclaimed the priest with a sneer. "Only

a fool needs experts! One must be more of a brute than the Indians,

who build their own houses, not to know how to construct four walls

and put a roof on top of them. That's all a schoolhouse is!"

The guests gazed at Ibarra, who had turned pale, but he continued as

if in conversation with Maria Clara.

"But your Reverence should consider--"

"See now," went on the Franciscan, not allowing the alcalde to

continue, "look how one of our lay brothers, the most stupid that we

have, has constructed a hospital, good, pretty, and cheap. He made

them work hard and paid only eight cuartos a day even to those who

had to come from other towns. He knew how to handle them, not like

a lot of cranks and little mestizos who are spoiling them by paying

three or four reals."

"Does your Reverence say that he paid only eight

cuartos? Impossible!" The alcalde was trying to change the course of

the conversation.

"Yes, sir, and those who pride themselves on being good Spaniards

ought to imitate him. You see now, since the Suez Canal was opened,

the corruption that has come in here. Formerly, when we had to double

the Cape, neither so many vagabonds came here nor so many others went

from here to become vagabonds."

"But, Padre Damaso--"

"You know well enough what the Indian is--just as soon as he gets

a little learning he sets himself up as a doctor! All these little

fellows that go to Europe--"

"But, listen, your Reverence!" interrupted the alcalde, who was

becoming nervous over the aggressiveness of such talk.

"Every one ends up as he deserves," the friar continued. "The hand

of God is manifest in the midst of it all, and one must be blind

not to see it. Even in this life the fathers of such vipers receive

their punishment, they die in jail ha, ha! As we might say, they

have nowhere--"

But he did not finish the sentence. Ibarra, livid, had been following

him with his gaze and upon hearing this allusion to his father jumped

up and dropped a heavy hand on the priest's head, so that he fell back

stunned. The company was so filled with surprise and fright that no

one made any movement to interfere.

"Keep off!" cried the youth in a terrible voice, as he caught up a

sharp knife and placed his foot on the neck of the friar, who was

recovering from the shock of his fall. "Let him who values his life

keep away!"

The youth was beside himself. His whole body trembled and his eyes

rolled threateningly in their sockets. Fray Damaso arose with an

effort, but the youth caught him by the neck and shook him until he

again fell doubled over on his knees.

"Señor Ibarra! Señor Ibarra!" stammered some. But no one, not even

the alferez himself, dared to approach the gleaming knife, when they

considered the youth's strength and the condition of his mind. All

seemed to be paralyzed.

"You, here! You have been silent, now it is my turn! I have tried to

avoid this, but God brings me to it--let God be the judge!" The youth

was breathing laboriously, but with a hand of iron he held down the

Franciscan, who was struggling vainly to free himself.

"My heart beats tranquilly, my hand is sure," he began, looking

around him. "First, is there one among you, one who has not loved his

father, who was born in such shame and humiliation that he hates his

memory? You see? You understand this silence? Priest of a God of peace,

with your mouth full of sanctity and religion and your heart full of

evil, you cannot know what a father is, or you might have thought of

your own! In all this crowd which you despise there is not one like

you! You are condemned!"

The persons surrounding him, thinking that he was about to commit

murder, made a movement.

"Away!" he cried again in a threatening voice. "What, do you fear that

I shall stain my hands with impure blood? Have I not told you that

my heart beats tranquilly? Away from us! Listen, priests and judges,

you who think yourselves other men and attribute to yourselves other

rights: my father was an honorable man,--ask these people here, who

venerate his memory. My father was a good citizen and he sacrificed

himself for me and for the good of his country. His house was open

and his table was set for the stranger and the outcast who came to

him in distress! He was a Christian who always did good and who never

oppressed the unprotected or afflicted those in trouble. To this man

here he opened his doors, he made him sit at his table and called

him his friend. And how has this man repaid him? He calumniated him,

persecuted him, raised up against him all the ignorant by availing

himself of the sanctity of his position; he outraged his tomb,

dishonored his memory, and persecuted him even in the sleep of

death! Not satisfied with this, he persecutes the son now! I have

fled from him, I have avoided his presence. You this morning heard

him profane the pulpit, pointing me out to popular fanaticism, and I

held my peace! Now he comes here to seek a quarrel with me. To your

surprise, I have suffered in silence, but he again insults the most

sacred memory that there is for a son. You who are here, priests and

judges, have you seen your aged father wear himself out working for

you, separating himself from you for your welfare, have you seen him

die of sorrow in a prison sighing for your embrace, seeking some one

to comfort him, alone, sick, when you were in a foreign land? Have you

afterwards heard his name dishonored, have you found his tomb empty

when you went to pray beside it? No? You are silent, you condemn him!"

He raised his hand, but with the swiftness of light a girlish form

put itself between them and delicate fingers restrained the avenging

arm. It was Maria Clara. Ibarra stared at her with a look that seemed

to reflect madness. Slowly his clenched fingers relaxed, letting

fall the body of the Franciscan and the knife. Covering his face,

he fled through the crowd.