CHAPTER XIII
IN THE HOUSE OF TASIO.
On the morning of the following day, Juan Crisostomo Ibarra, after
visiting his estates, went to the house of Tasio, the philosopher,
his father's friend.
Quiet reigned in the old man's garden. The swallows were flying about
the gables of the house, but they were making scarcely a sound. The
windows were covered with vines which clung to the old, moss-covered
wall and made the house appear all the more solitary and quiet. Ibarra
tied his horse to a post and, walking almost on tip-toes, crossed the
clean and well-cultivated garden. He went up the stairs and, as the
door was open, walked in. An old man leaned over a book in which he
seemed to be writing. On the walls of the room were collections of
insects and leaves, maps, and some shelves of books and manuscripts.
Tasio was so absorbed in his work that he did not notice the arrival
of the youth. The latter, not wishing to disturb the philosopher,
tried to retire from the place, but the old man, looking up, said:
"What? Are you here?" and showed no little surprise in his look.
"Excuse me," replied Ibarra, "I see that you are very busy."
"As a matter of fact I was writing a little, but it is not urgent,
and I want to rest myself. Can I be useful to you in any way?"
Ibarra drew some papers from his pocket-book and replied: "My
father was wont to consult you in many things, and I remember that
he never had to do other than congratulate himself when he followed
your advice. I have on my hands a small undertaking and I want to be
assured of success."
Ibarra then related to him briefly his plan for the erection of
a school house in honor of his betrothed. He showed the stupefied
philosopher the plans which had been returned from Manila.
"I wish that you would advise me as to what persons I ought first to
have on my side in order to make the undertaking most successful. You
are well acquainted with the inhabitants of the town. I have just
arrived here and am almost a stranger in my country."
The old man examined the plans which were laid out before him. His
eyes were full of tears.
"That which you are going to carry out was a dream of mine, the dream
of a poor fool," he exclaimed, greatly moved. "And now, my first advice
to you is that you never come to consult me in regard to the matter."
The young man looked at him in surprise.
"Because sensible people," he continued, in an ironical tone, "will
take you for a fool, like myself. People always consider every one
a fool who does not think just as they do and, for this reason,
they call me crazy. But I am obliged to them for that, for woe be
to me when the time arrives that they say I have sense! That day,
should it ever come, would deprive me of the little liberty which I
have purchased by sacrificing my reputation for being sane."
And the old man shook his head, as if to drive away a thought and
continued: "My second advice to you is that you consult the curate,
the gobernadorcillo, and all the people of good standing. They will all
give you bad, foolish and useless advice, but to consult does not mean
to obey. Try to appear to be following their advice as far as possible
and make them think you are working according to their wishes."
Ibarra sat thinking for a moment and then replied: "The advice is good
but difficult to follow. Could I not carry out my work without a shadow
reflecting upon it? Could I not carry out the good work in spite of
all? Does truth need to be clothed in the garments of falsehood?"
"That's it. Nobody likes the bare truth."
"I hope to be able to realize all my hopes without encountering great
resistance," said Ibarra.
"Yes, if the priests lend you their hand; no, if they draw it away. All
your efforts will be battered to pieces against the walls of the
curate's house. The alcalde will deny to you to-morrow what he has
granted you to-day. Not a mother will let her son attend the school,
and then all your efforts will have just an opposite effect to that
intended. You will discourage all others who might wish to attempt
beneficent undertakings."
"Nevertheless," replied Ibarra, "I cannot believe in this power of
which you speak. And even supposing it to be true, admitting that it
is as you say, would I not still have on my side the sensible people
and the Government?"
"The Government! The Government!" exclaimed the philosopher, raising
his eyes and looking at the ceiling. "However much the Government
may desire to uplift the country for its own benefit and that of
the mother country; however generous may be the Catholic Kings in
spirit, I must remind you in confidence that there is another power
which does not allow the Government to see, hear, or judge except
what the curates or provincial priests wish. The Government is
afraid of the advancement of the people, and the people are afraid
of the forces of the Government. So long as the Government does
not understand the people of the country, the country will never
get out from this guardianship. The people will live like weak,
young children who tremble at the sound of the voice of their tutor,
whose mercy they beg. The Government has no dreams of a great future,
a healthy development of the country. The people do not complain,
because they have no voice. They do not move, because they are too
carefully watched. You say that they do not suffer, because you have
not seen what would make your heart bleed. But some day you will see
it! alas! some day you will hear it. When the light of day is thrown on
their monstrous forms, you will see a frightful reaction. That great
force, held back for centuries, that poison, distilled drop by drop,
those sighs, so long repressed-all will come to light and will some
day burst forth... Who will then pay the accounts which the people
will present and which History preserves for us on its bloody pages?"
"God, the Government, and the Church will never allow that day to
come!" replied Crisostomo, impressed in spite of himself. "The
Filipinos are religious and they love Spain. The Filipinos will
always know how much this nation has done for them. There are abuses;
yes! There are defects; I do not deny it. But Spain is working to
introduce reforms which will correct them; she is devising plans;
she is not selfish. Can it be that my love for my native land is
incompatible with love for Spain? Is it necessary to lower one's self
to be a good Christian, to prostitute one's own conscience to bring
about good? I love my fatherland, the Philippines, because I owe
to her my life and my happiness-because every man should love his
native land. I love Spain, the fatherland of my ancestors, because,
in spite of all that may be said, the Philippines owe to Spain,
and always will owe to her, their happiness and their future. I am a
Catholic. I hold dear the belief of my fathers, and I do not see why
I have to bow my head when I am able to raise it; nor why I have to
entrust it to my enemies, when I can trample on them."
"Because the field in which you are sowing your seed is in the hands
of your enemies, and you are weak in comparison to them... It is
necessary that you first kiss the hand-"
But the young man did not allow him to go farther and exclaimed
violently: "To kiss their hands! You forget that, between them, they
killed my father; they threw his body out of its sepulchre: but I,
I who am his son, I do not forget it, and, if I do not avenge myself,
it is because I consider the prestige of the Church."
The old philosopher bowed his head. "Senor Ibarra," he replied slowly,
"if you keep those memories-memories which I cannot advise you to
forget-if you keep those memories, give up your plans and your
undertaking and try to work good for your countrymen in another
way. The undertaking needs another man than you for its execution,
because to carry it out will not only require money and care, but,
in our country, self-denial, tenacity and faith are also needed. The
land is not ready for it; it has been sown only with darnel."
Ibarra understood the weight of these words, but he was not going
to be discouraged. Thoughts of Maria Clara filled his mind; he must
fulfill his promise to her.
"Does not your experience suggest something other than this hard
method?" he asked in a low voice.
The old man took him by the arm and led him to the window. A cool
breeze was blowing from the north. Before his eyes lay the garden,
stretching out to the large forest which served as a park.
"Why do we not have to do the same as that weak young bush loaded
with roses and buds?" said the philosopher pointing to a beautiful
rose bush. "The wind blows, shakes it and it bends itself down as if
trying to hide its precious load. If the bush kept itself erect, it
would be broken off, the wind would scatter its flowers and the buds
would be blighted. The wind passes over, and the bush straightens
itself up again, proud of its treasure. Thus it would be with you,
a plant transplanted from Europe to this stony ground, if you did not
look about for some support and belittle yourself. Alone and lofty,
you are in bad condition."
"And would this sacrifice bring the fruits that I hope for?" asked
Ibarra. "Would the priest have faith in me and would he forget the
offense? Would his kind not be able to feign friendship, to make a
false show of protecting me, and then, from behind in the darkness,
fight me, harass me and wound my heels, thus making me waver more
quickly than they could by attacking me face to face? Given these
premises, what do you think could be expected?"
The old man remained silent for some time, not being able to reply. At
last he said: "If such a thing took place, if the undertaking failed,
I would console you with the thought that you had done all that was
in your power. And even so, something would be gained. Lay the first
stone, sow the first seed and after the tempest has passed over,
some little grain perhaps would germinate."
"I believe you," exclaimed Ibarra, stretching out his hand. "Not in
vain did I look for good advice. This very day I shall go and make
friends with the curate."
Taking leave of the old man, he mounted on his horse and rode away.
"Attention!" murmured the pessimistic philosopher to himself, as he
followed the young man with his eyes. "Let us observe carefully how
Destiny will unfold the tragedy which began in the cemetery."
But this time the philosopher was truly mistaken. The tragedy had
begun long before.