CHAPTER XXII
MIGHT AND RIGHT.
It was about ten o'clock at night. The last rockets lazily soared
into the dark sky, where paper balloons shone like new stars. Some of
the fireworks had set fire to houses and were threatening them with
destruction; for this reason men could be seen on the ridges of the
roofs carrying buckets of water and long bamboo poles with cloths tied
on the ends. Their dark shadows seemed descended from ethereal space
to be present at the rejoicings of human beings. An enormous number of
wheels had been burned, also castles, bulls, caraboas and other pieces
of fireworks, and finally a great volcano, which surpassed in beauty
and grandeur anything that the inhabitants of San Diego had ever seen.
Now the people turned in one great crowd toward the plaza to attend
the last theatrical performance. Here and there could be seen the
colored Bengal lights, fantastically illuminating groups of merry
people. The small boys were making use of their torches to search
for unexploded firecrackers in the grass, or, in fact, for anything
else that might be of use to them. But the music was the signal and
all abandoned the lawn for the theatre.
The large platform was splendidly illuminated. Thousands of lights
surrounded the pillars and hung from the roof, while a number, in
pyramid-shaped groups, were arranged on the floor of the stage. An
employee attended to these and whenever he would come forward to
regulate them, the public would whistle at him and shout: "There he
is! There he is now!"
In front of the stage, the orchestra tuned its instruments, and
behind the musicians sat the principal people of the town. Spaniards
and rich visitors were occupying the reserved chairs. The public,
the mass of people without titles or rank, filled the rest of the
plaza. Some carried with them benches, not so much for seats as
to remedy their lack of stature. When they stood upon them, rude
protests were made on the part of those without benches or things to
stand on. Then they would get down immediately, but soon mount up on
their pedestals again as if nothing had happened.
Comings and goings, cries, exclamations, laughter, squibs that had
been slow in going off, and firecrackers increased the tumult. Here,
a foot broke through a bench, and some one fell to the floor, while
the crowd laughed and made a show of him who had come so far to see
a show. There, they fought and disputed over positions, and, a little
farther on, the noise of breaking bottles and glasses could be heard:
it was Andeng. She was carrying drinks and refreshments on a tray
which she was balancing with both hands, but she had met her lover
and he tried to take advantage of her helplessness by tickling...
The teniente mayor presided at the production since the gobernadorcillo
was fonder of monte.
Maria Clara and her friends had arrived, and Don Filipo received
them, and accompanied them to their seats. Behind came the curate
with another Franciscan and some Spaniards. With the curate were some
other people who make it their business to escort the friars.
"May God reward them in another life," said the old man, referring
to them as he walked away from Maria Clara's party.
The performance began with Chananay and Marianito in Crispinoe la
Comare. Everybody had eyes and ears intent upon the stage, except
one, Father Salvi. He seemed to have come to the theatre for no other
purpose than to watch Maria Clara, whose sadness gave to her beauty
an air so ideal and interesting that everybody looked upon her with
rapture. But the Franciscan's eyes, deeply hidden in their hollow
orbits, spoke no words of rapture. In that sombre look one could read
something desperately sad. With such eyes Cain might have contemplated
from afar the Paradise whose delights his mother had pictured to him.
The act was just ending when Ibarra arrived. His presence occasioned
a buzz of conversation. The attention of everybody was fixed on him
and on the curate.
But the young man did not seem to be aware of it, for he greeted
Maria Clara and her friends with naturalness and sat down at their
side. The only one who spoke was Sinang.
"Did you see the volcano when they touched it off?" she asked.
"No, my little friend. I had to accompany the Governor General."
"Well, that is too bad! The curate came with us and he was telling
us stories about condemned people. What do you think? Doesn't he do
it to make us afraid so that we cannot enjoy ourselves? How does it
appear to you?"
The curate arose and approached Don Filipo, with whom he seemed to
be having a lively discussion. He was speaking with animation and
Don Filipo replying with moderation and in a low voice.
"I am sorry that I cannot please Your Reverence," said the
latter. "Senor Ibarra is one of the heaviest tax-payers and has a
right to sit here as long as he does not disturb the public order."
"But is not scandalizing good Christians disturbing the public
order? You let a wolf into the flock. You will be held responsible
for this before God and before the authorities of the town."
"I always hold myself responsible for acts which emanate from my own
will, Father," replied Don Filipo, slightly inclining his head. "But
my little authority does not give me power to meddle in religious
affairs. Those who wish to avoid contact with him do not have to
speak to him. Senor Ibarra does not force himself on any one."
"But he affords danger. He who loves danger perishes in it."
"I don't see any danger, Father. The Alcalde and the Governor General,
my superiors, have been talking with him all the afternoon, and it
is not for me to give them a lesson."
"If you don't put him out of here, we will leave."
"I am very, very sorry, but I cannot put any one out of here."
The curate repented having said what he did, but now there was no
alternative. He made a signal to his companion, who laboriously rose
to his feet and both went out. The persons attached to the friars
imitated the priests, not, however, without first glancing with hatred
at Ibarra.
Murmurs and whispers increased. Then various persons approached and
saluted the young man and said:
"We are with you. Take no notice of them."
"Who are 'them'?" he asked with surprise.
"Those who have gone out in order to avoid contact with you."
"To avoid contact with me? Contact with me?"
"Yes, they say that you are excommunicated."
Ibarra, surprised, did not know what to say and looked around him. He
saw Maria Clara, who was hiding her face behind her fan.
"But is it possible?" he exclaimed at last. "Are we still in the
darkness of the Middle Ages? So that-"
And turning to the young women and changing his tone, he said:
"Excuse me; I have forgotten an appointment. I will return to accompany
you home."
"Stay!" said Sinang. "Yeyeng is going to dance in the 'La
Calandria.' She dances divinely."
"I cannot, my little friend, but I will certainly return."
The murmurs increased.
While Yeyeng, dressed in the style of the lower class of Madrid, was
coming on the stage with the remark: "Da Uste su permiso?" (Do you
give your permission?) and as Carvajal was replying to her "Pase uste
adelante" (Pass forward), two soldiers of the Civil Guard approached
Don Filipo, asking him to suspend the performance.
"And what for?" asked he, surprised at the request.
"Because the alferez and his Senora have been fighting and they
cannot sleep."
"You tell the alferez that we have permission from the Alcalde,
and that no one in the town has any authority over him, not even the
gobernadorcillo, who is my on-ly su-per-ior."
"Well, you will have to suspend the performance," repeated the
soldiers.
Don Filipo turned his back to them. The guards marched off.
In order not to disturb the general tranquillity, Don Filipo said
not a word about the matter to any one.
After a piece of light opera, which was heartily applauded, the Prince
Villardo presented himself on the stage, and challenged all the Moros,
who had imprisoned his father, to a fight. The hero threatened to
cut off all their heads at a single blow and to send them all to
the moon. Fortunately for the Moros, who were making ready to fight
to the tune of the "Riego Hymn," [15] a tumult intervened. All of a
sudden, the orchestra stopped playing and the musicians made a rush
for the stage, throwing their instruments in all directions. The
brave Villardo was not expecting such a move, and, taking them
for allies of the Moros he also threw down his sword and shield and
began to run. The Moros, seeing this terrible giant fleeing, found it
convenient to imitate him. Cries, sighs, imprecations and blasphemies
filled the air. The people ran, trampled over each other, the lights
were put out, and the glass lamps with their cocoanut oil and little
wicks were flying through the air. "Tulisanes! Tulisanes!" cried
some. "Fire! Fire! Ladrones!" cried others. Women and children wept,
chairs and spectators were rolled over on the floor in the midst of
the confusion, rush and tumult.
"What has happened?"
Two Civil Guards with sticks in hand had gone after the musicians
in order to put an end to the spectacle. The teniente mayor, with
the cuaderilleros, [16] armed with their old sabers, had managed to
arrest the two Civil Guards in spite of their resistance.
"Take them to the tribunal!" shouted Don Filipo. "Be careful not to
let them get away!"
Ibarra had returned and had sought out Maria Clara. The terrified
young maidens, trembling and pale, were clinging closely to him. Aunt
Isabel was reciting the litanies in Latin.
The crowd having recovered a little from the fright and some one
having explained what had caused the rush and tumult, indignation
arose in everyone's breast. Stones rained upon the Civil Guards who
were being conducted to the tribunal by the cuaderilleros. Some one
proposed that they burn the barracks of the Civil Guards and that
they roast Dona Consolacion and the alferez alive.
"That is all that they are good for," cried a woman, rolling up her
sleeves and stretching out her arms. "They can disturb the people
but they persecute none but honorable men. They do nothing with the
tulisanes and the gamblers. Look at them! Let us burn the cuartel."
Somebody had been wounded in the arm and was asking for confession. A
plaintive voice was heard coming from under an upset bench. It was
a poor musician. The stage was filled with the players and people
of the town and they were all talking at the same time. There
was Chananay, dressed in the costume of Leonor in the "Trovador,"
talking in corrupted Spanish with Ratia, who was in a school teacher's
costume. There too, was Yeyeng, dressed in a silk wrapper, talking
with the Prince Villardo. There too, Balbino and the Moros, trying
to console the musicians who were more or less sorry sights. Some
Spaniards were walking from one place to another, arguing with every
one they met.
But a nucleus for a mob already formed. Don Filipo knew what was
their intention and tried to stop them.
"Do not break the peace!" he shouted. "To-morrow we will demand
satisfaction: we will have justice. I will take the responsibility
for our getting justice."
"No!" some replied. "They did the same thing in Calamba. The same
thing was promised, but the Alcalde did nothing. We want justice done
by our own hands. To the cuartel!"
In vain the teniente mayor argued with them. The group that had
gathered showed no signs of changing its attitude or purpose. Don
Filipo looked about him, in search of help. He saw Ibarra.
"Senor Ibarra, for my sake, as a favor, hold them while I seek some
cuaderilleros."
"What can I do?" asked the young man, perplexed. But the teniente
mayor was already in the distance.
Ibarra in turn looked about him, for he knew not whom. Fortunately, he
thought he discerned Elias, in the crowd, but not taking an active part
in it. Ibarra ran up to him, seized his arm and said to him in Spanish:
"For heaven's sake! Do something, if you can! I cannot do anything."
The pilot must have understood, for he lost himself in the mob.
Lively discussions were heard mingled with strong interjections. Soon
the mob began to disperse, each one of the participants becoming less
hostile. And it was time for them to do so, for the cuaderilleros
were coming to the scene with fixed bayonets.
In the meantime, what was the curate doing?
Father Salvi had not gone to bed. Standing on foot, immovable and
leaning his face against the shutter, he was looking toward the plaza
and, from time to time, a suppressed sigh escaped his breast. If the
light of his lamp had not been so dim, perhaps one might have seen that
his eyes were filling with tears. Thus he stood for almost an hour.
The tumult in the plaza roused him from this state. Full of surprise,
he followed with his eyes the people as they rushed to and fro in
confusion. Their voices and cries he could vaguely hear even at that
distance. One of the servants came running in breathlessly and informed
him what was going on.
A thought entered his mind. Amid confusion and tumult libertines
take advantage of the fright and the weakness of woman. All flee to
save themselves; nobody thinks of anyone else; the women faint and
their cries are not heard; they fall; are trampled over; fear and
fright overcome modesty, and under cover of darkness... He fancied
he could see Ibarra carrying Maria Clara fainting in his arms, and
then disappearing in the darkness.
With leaps and bounds, he went down the stairs without hat, or cane,
and, almost like a crazy person, turned toward the plaza.
There he found some Spaniards reproving the soldiers. He looked
toward the seats which Maria Clara and her friends had been occupying,
and saw that they were vacant.
"Father curate! Father curate!" shouted the Spaniards to him, but he
took no notice and ran on in the direction of the house of Captain
Tiago. There he recovered his breath. He saw through the transparent
shade, a shadow-that adorable shadow, so graceful and delicate in
its contour-that of Maria Clara. He could also see another shadow,
that of her aunt carrying cups and glasses.
"Well!" he muttered to himself. "It seems that she has only fallen
ill."
Aunt Isabel afterward closed the shell windows and the graceful shadow
could no longer be seen.
The curate walked away from there without seeing the crowd. He was
looking at the bust of a beautiful maiden which he had before his
eyes, a maiden sleeping and breathing sweetly. Her eyelids were shaded
by long lashes, which formed graceful curves like those on Rafael's
virgins. Her small mouth was smiling, and her whole countenance seemed
to breathe virginity, purity and innocence. That sweet face of hers
on the background of the white draperies of the bed was a vision like
the head of a cherubim among the clouds. His impassioned imagination
went on and pictured to him... Who can describe all that a burning
brain can conceive?