CHAPTER III
HERETIC AND REVOLUTIONIST.
Ibarra was still confused, but the evening breeze, which, in Manila,
is at this time of the year always cool and refreshing, seemed gently
to lift the hazy mist which hung over his eyes. He removed his hat
and drew a deep, long breath.
Men of all nationalities passed by in swift carriages or in slow-going,
rented calesas. He was walking at that slow pace characteristic
alike of deep thought and laziness, and was making his way toward the
Plaza of Binondo. He looked about in search of any old and familiar
objects. Yes, there were the same old streets, the same old houses with
white and blue fronts, the same old walls covered with whitewash or
repainted in poor imitation of granite; there was the same old church
tower, its clock with transparent face still marking the hours; there,
too, were the old Chinese shops, with their dirty curtains and iron
rods, one of which remained unrepaired as he himself had bent it when
a boy.
"Things go slowly here!" he muttered and continued up the street past
the vestry.
As they dished up flavored ices, the street vendors were still crying
"sorbettes." The same little cocoanut oil lamps furnished light for
the stands where native women and Chinese disposed of their sweetmeats
and fruit.
"It is marvellous," he exclaimed. "There is the same Chinaman who was
at that stand seven years ago. There is that same old woman whom I
remember so well. Why, one might think my seven years in Europe but
a night's sleep. And, by heavens, they have not yet repaired this
broken place in the pavement!"
Indeed, the stone which had been torn out of the pavement before
he left Manila had not yet been replaced. While he was meditating
upon the wonderful stability of things in so unstable a country,
some one placed a hand upon his shoulder. With a start he looked up,
and his eyes met those of the old lieutenant, who also had left the
Captain's house. A smile had displaced the officer's usual harsh
expression and characteristic frown.
"Be careful, young man!" said he. "Remember what happened to your
father!"
"I beg your pardon. You seem to have esteemed my father very
highly. Can you tell me what has been his fate?" asked Ibarra, gazing
intently into the lieutenant's eyes.
"Do you not know?" said the officer.
"I asked Don Santiago, but he said that he would tell me nothing
until to-morrow. Have you no information regarding him?"
"Why, yes; everybody knows about him. He died in prison."
The young man stepped back and stared wildly at the officer. "In
prison! Who died in prison?" he asked in astonishment.
"Why, your father, who had been arrested," answered the officer
somewhat surprised.
"What! My father in prison! Arrested and imprisoned! Man, what are
you talking about? Do you know who my father was? Are you-?" asked
the young man, nervously grasping the officer's arm.
"I don't think that I am mistaken: Don Rafael Ibarra."
"Yes. Don Rafael Ibarra," repeated the young man, scarcely able to
utter the words.
"I thought that you knew it," said the officer, in a sympathetic
voice, as he saw the emotion his words had caused. "I thought that
you knew it; but be brave. Here, you know, no man can be honorable
without being imprisoned."
"I cannot believe that you are not jesting," replied Ibarra, after
a few minutes of deep silence. "Can you tell me for what offense he
was imprisoned?"
The old man paused as if to meditate. "It seems strange to me that
you have not been kept informed as to the affairs of your family."
"My father's last letter, which I received a year ago, told me not
to be uneasy if he failed to write to me, for he was very busy. He
advised me to continue my studies, he sent me his blessing-"
"In that case, he must have written the letter to you shortly before
his death. It is almost a year since we buried him in his own town."
"Why was my father arrested?" asked Ibarra in a voice full of emotion.
"The cause of his arrest was an honorable one. I must go to my
quarters now; walk along with me and then I can tell you on the
way. Take my arm."
They walked for some time in melancholy silence. Deep in thought and
nervously stroking his goatee, the officer sought inspiration before
he could begin the pitiful tale.
"As you very well know," he at last began, "your father was the richest
man in the province, and, although he was loved and highly respected by
many, there were some envious persons who hated him. Your father had
a great many enemies among the priests and the Spaniards. Some months
after your departure, trouble arose between Don Rafael and Father
Damaso, but I do not know what it was all about. Father Damaso accused
your father of not attending confession. In former times, however,
he had never attended confession. Nothing was said about it, and he
and the priest were good friends, as you will remember. Furthermore,
Don Rafael was a very honorable man and much more upright and just
than many who go to confession regularly. He was very conscientious,
and, in speaking to me in regard to his troubles with Father Damaso,
used to say:
"'Senor Guevara, do you believe that God will forgive a crime, a
murder for instance, simply because that crime has been confessed
to a priest-confessed to a man who is in duty bound to keep it
secret? Will God pardon a man whose repentance is brought about by
his cowardly fear of hell? I have a very different opinion of God. I
cannot see how one evil can be corrected by another, nor how pardon
can be procured by mere idle tears and donations to the Church.' Your
father always followed the strictest rules of morality. I may safely
say that he never harmed any one, but, on the contrary, always
sought by doing good to offset certain unjust deeds committed by your
grandfathers. However, his troubles with the priests continued and took
on a dangerous aspect. Father Damaso alluded to him from the pulpit,
and, if he did not do so directly by name, it was an oversight on his
part, for anything might be expected from a man of his character. I
foresaw that sooner or later the affair would have a bad ending."
The old lieutenant paused for a few minutes and then continued:
"About this time there came to the province a man who had been in
the artillery, but had been thrown out of the ranks on account of
his brutality and ignorance. This man had to make a livelihood. He
was not allowed to engage in the work of an ordinary laborer, since
that might damage Spain's prestige, but somehow obtained the position
of collector of taxes on vehicles. He had no education whatever, and
the natives soon found it out. A Spaniard who cannot read and write
is a wonder to them, and hence he became the subject of all sorts of
ridicule. Knowing that he was being laughed at, he became ashamed to
collect his taxes. This had a bad effect on his character, which was
already bad enough. People used to give him documents upside down to
see him pretend to read them. He would make a show of doing so, and
then, on the first blank space he found, would fill in some sprawling
characters which, I may say, represented him very accurately. The
natives continued to pay their taxes, but kept on ridiculing him. He
fairly raved with anger and worked himself up to such a frame of
mind that he respected none. Finally, he had some words with your
father. It happened that one day, while the collector was studying
a document which had been given to him in a store, some school boys
came along. One of them called the attention of his companions to the
collector, and they all began to laugh and point their fingers at the
unhappy man. The collector finally lost his patience, turned quickly
and chased his tormentors. The boys, of course, ran in all directions,
at the same time mimicking a child learning the alphabet. Blind with
rage because he could not reach them, he threw his cane, struck one
of the boys on the head and knocked him down. Not content with this,
he went up and kicked the boy several times. Unfortunately, your father
happened to be passing just at the moment. Indignant at what he saw,
he seized the tax collector by the arm and severely reproached him for
his actions. The tax collector in anger raised his cane to strike,
but your father was too quick for him. With that strength which he
inherited from his forefathers, he, as some say, struck the collector,
or, as others claim, only gave him a push. The fact is that the man
staggered and fell to the ground, and, in falling, struck his head
against a stone. Don Rafael quietly lifted up the wounded boy and
carried him to the court house near by, leaving the collector where
he had fallen. The ex-artilleryman began to bleed at the mouth and
died without regaining consciousness.
"Naturally the law stepped in. They showered calumnies of all
kinds upon your father and accused him of being a heretic and a
revolutionist. To be a heretic is a great misfortune anywhere or
at any time, but it was especially so at this particular time,
for the chief magistrate of the province was the loudest prayer
maker in the Church. To be a revolutionist is still worse. One might
better have killed three highly educated tax collectors than be thus
accused. Everybody deserted your father, and his books and papers
were seized. He was accused of being a subscriber to 'El Correo del
Ultramar' and to Madrid newspapers, of having sent you to Germany,
of having in his possession incriminating papers and pictures,
and-well, I don't know what not. He was even attacked because,
although he was the descendant of Spaniards, he wore the dress of
the natives. If your father had been anybody else, he would have been
acquitted, for the doctors pronounced the death of the collector due
to natural causes. His fortune, however, his confidence in the law,
and his hatred for everything which seemed unlawful and unjust, cost
him his life. I myself, much as I dislike begging for mercy, called
upon the Governor General, the predecessor of the present Governor. I
brought out the fact that a man who aided every poor Spaniard, who
gave food and shelter to all, and whose veins were filled with the
generous blood of Spain-such a man could not be a revolutionist. In
vain I argued for him, pledged my own life for him, and swore by
my military honor. What did it all amount to? I was badly received,
curtly and summarily dismissed, and called a fool."
The old man paused to take breath. His young companion neither looked
up nor made a sound. The narrator proceeded: "I took charge of the
case for your father. I called upon the celebrated Filipino lawyer,
young A-a, but he refused to undertake the defense. 'I would lose
the case,' he said, 'my defense would cause new accusations against
him, and perhaps bring them upon me. Go and see Senor M-, who is an
eloquent orator, a Spaniard and a man of great reputation.' I did so,
and the celebrated lawyer took charge of the case, which he conducted
in a masterful and brilliant manner. But your father had many enemies,
some of whom did their work secretly. There were many false witnesses
in the case, and their calumnies, which anywhere else would have been
overthrown by a single sarcastic phrase from the defending attorney,
were here given a great deal of weight. As fast as the attorney
proved the falsity of their accusations, new charges were brought
forward. They accused him of having wrongfully taken possession of
a large tract of land. They sued him for damages and for injuries
caused. They said that he had dealings with the organized bandits
or tulisanes, and that thus he had been able to keep his property
unmolested. In fact, the case became so complicated that within a year
no one understood it. The chief magistrate was called away from his
post and replaced by another of good reputation, but unfortunately
this magistrate, too, was displaced in a few months.
"The sufferings, disappointments and discomforts of prison life,
and his great grief at seeing the ingratitude of so many supposed
friends, finally broke down your father's iron constitution and he
became fatally ill. When it was all over; when he had proved himself
not guilty of being an enemy to his country, and innocent of the
death of the tax collector, he died in prison, with no one to care
for him in his last hours. I arrived just as he was expiring."
The old man had finished all he had to say. Ibarra, overcome with
grief at the pathetic story he had heard, could not utter a word. The
two had arrived at the gate of the barracks. Stopping and shaking
hands with the young man, the officer said: "My boy, Captain Tiago
can give you the details. I must say good night, for my duty calls
me." With deep emotion, Ibarra grasped the lean hand of the lieutenant,
and then looked after him in silence until he disappeared in the
building. Turning slowly about, he saw a carriage passing and made
a sign to the cabman.
"Lala's Hotel," he said in a low voice.
"This fellow is just out of jail," said the cabman to himself as he
whipped up his horses.