by José Rizal
If in the deep, rich grass that covers my rest in thy bosom, Some day thou seest upspring a lowly, tremulous blossom, Lay there thy lips, 'tis my soul; may I feel on my forehead descending, Deep in the chilly tomb, the soft, warm breath of thy kisses. Let the calm light of the moon fall around me, and dawn's fleeting splendor; Let the winds murmur and sigh, on my cross let some bird tell its message; Loosed from the rain by the brazen sun, let clouds of soft vapor Bear to the skies, as they mount again, the chant of my spirit. There may some friendly heart lament my parting untimely, And if at eventide a soul for my tranquil sleep prayeth, Pray thou too, O my fatherland! for my peaceful reposing. Pray for those who go down to death through unspeakable torments; Pray for those who remain to suffer such torture in prisons; Pray for the bitter grief of our mothers, our widows, our orphans; Oh, pray too for thyself, on the way to thy final redemption.
When our still dwelling-place wraps night's dusky mantle about her, Leaving the dead alone with the dead, to watch till the morning, Break not our rest, and seek not to lay death's mystery open. If now and then thou shouldst hear the string of a lute or a zithern, Mine is the hand, dear country, and mine is the voice that is singing.
When my tomb, that all have forgot, no cross nor stone marketh, There let the laborer guide his plough, there cleave the earth open. So shall my ashes at last be one with thy hills and thy valleys. Little 'twill matter then, my country, that thou shouldst forget me! I shall be air in thy streets, and I shall be space in thy meadows. I shall be vibrant speech in thine ears, shall be fragrance and color, Light and shout, and loved song forever repeating my message.
Rizal's own explanation of the lofty purpose of his searching storyof his Tagalog fatherland was in these words of his dedicatory preface:
TO MY COUNTRY
The records of human suffering make known to us the existence ofailments of such nature that the slightest touch irritates and causestormenting pains. Whenever, in the midst of modern civilizations,I have tried to call up thy dear image, O my country! either for thecomradeship of remembrance or to compare thy life with that aboutme, I have seen thy fair face disfigured and distorted by a hideoussocial cancer.
Eager for thy health, which is our happiness, and seeking the bestremedy for thy pain, I am about to do with thee what the ancients didwith their sick: they exposed them on the steps of their temples, thatevery one who came to adore the divinity within might offer a remedy.
So I shall strive to describe faithfully thy state without extenuation;to lift a corner of the covering that hides thy sore; sacrificingeverything to truth, even the love of thy glory, while loving, asthy son, even thy frailties and sins.
Jose Rizal.
AN EAGLE FLIGHT
I.
THE HOUSE ON THE PASIG.
It was toward the end of October. Don Santiago de los Santos, betterknown as Captain Tiago, was giving a dinner; and though, contrary tocustom, he had not announced it until that very afternoon, it hadbecome before evening the sole topic of conversation, not only atBinondo, but in the other suburbs of Manila, and even in the cityitself. Captain Tiago passed for the most lavish of entertainers,and it was well known that the doors of his home, like those of hiscountry, were closed to nobody and nothing save commerce and allnew or audacious ideas. The news spread, therefore, with lightningrapidity in the world of the sycophants, the unemployed and idle,whom heaven has multiplied so generously at Manila.
The dinner was given in a house of the Calle de Anloague, whichmay yet be recognized, if an earthquake has not demolished it. Thishouse, rather large and of a style common to the country, stood nearan arm of the Pasig, called the Boco de Binondo, a rio which, likeall others of Manila, washing along the multiple output of baths,sewers, and fishing grounds serves as a means of transport, and evenfurnishes drinking-water, if such be the humor of the Chinese carrier.Scarcely at intervals of a half-mile is this powerful artery of thequarter where the traffic is most important, the movement most active,dotted with bridges; and these, in ruins at one end six months ofthe year and inapproachable the remaining six at the other, givehorses a pretext for plunging into the water, to the great surprise ofpreoccupied mortals in carriages dozing tranquilly or philosophizingon the progress of the century.
The house of Captain Tiago was rather low and on lines sufficientlyincorrect. A grand staircase with green balustrades, carpeted atintervals, led from the vestibule, with its squares of colored faience,to the main floor, between Chinese pedestals ornamented with fantasticdesigns, supporting vases and jardinieres of flowers.
At the top of the staircase was a large apartment, called here caida,which for this night served at once as dining- and music-room. In thecentre, a long table, luxuriously set, seemed to promise to diners-outthe most soothing satisfaction, at the same time threatening thetimid girl--the dalaga--who for six mortal hours must submit to thecompanionship of strange and diverse people.
In contrast to these mundane preparations, richly colored picturesof religious subjects hung about the walls, and at the end of theapartment, imprisoned in ornate and splendid Renaissance carving,was a curious canvas of vast dimensions, bearing the inscription,"Our Lady of Peace and of Safe Journeys, Venerated at Antipolo." Theceiling was prettily decorated with jewelled Chinese lamps, cageswithout birds, spheres of crystal faced with colored foil, faded airplants, botetes, etc. On the river side, through fantastic arches, halfChinese, half European, were glimpses of a terrace, with trellises andarbors, illuminated by little colored lanterns. Brilliant chandeliers,reflected in great mirrors, lighted the apartment. On a platform ofpine was a superb grand piano. In a panel of the wall, a large portraitin oil represented a man of agreeable face, in frock coat, robust,straight, symmetrical as the gavel between his jewelled fingers.
The crowd of guests almost filled the room; the men separated fromthe women, as in Catholic churches and synagogues. An old cousinof Captain Tiago's was receiving alone. Her appearance was kindly,but her tongue not very flexible to the Castilian. She filled herrole by offering to the Spaniards trays of cigarettes and buyos, andgiving the Filipinos her hand to kiss. The poor old lady, wearied atlast, profited by the sound of breaking china to go out hurriedly,grumbling at maladroits. She did not reappear.
Whether the pictures roused a spirit of devotion, whether the womenof the Philippines are exceptional, the feminine part of the assemblyremained silent. Scarcely was heard even a yawn, stifled behind afan. The men made more stir. The most interesting and animated groupwas formed by two monks, two Spanish provincials, and an officer,seated round a little table, on which were wine and English biscuits.
The officer, an old lieutenant, tall and morose, looked a Duke of Alba,retired into the Municipal Guard. He spoke little and dryly. One of themonks was a young Dominican, handsome, brilliant, precociously grave;it was the curate of Binondo. Consummate dialectician, he could escapefrom a distinguo like an eel from a fisherman's nets. He spoke seldom,and seemed to weigh his words.
The other monk talked much and gestured more. Though his hair wasturning gray, he seemed to have preserved all his vigor. His carriage,his glance, his large jaws, his herculean frame, gave him the air of aRoman patrician in disguise. Yet he seemed genial, and if the timbreof his voice was autocratic, his frank and merry laugh removed anydisagreeable impression, so far even that one pardoned his appearingin the salon with unshod feet.
One of the provincials, a little man with a black beard, had nothingremarkable about him but his nose, which, to judge from its size,ought not to have belonged to him entire. The other, young and blond,seemed newly arrived in the country. The Franciscan was conversingwith him somewhat warmly.
"You will see," said he, "when you have been here several months;you will be convinced that to legislate at Madrid and to execute inthe Philippines is not one and the same thing."
"But----"
"I, for example," continued Brother Damaso, raising his voice tocut off the words of his objector, "I, who count twenty-three yearsof plane and palm, can speak with authority. I spent twenty yearsin one pueblo. In twenty years one gets acquainted with a town. SanDiego had six thousand souls. I knew each inhabitant as if I'd borneand reared him--with which foot this one limped, how that one's potboiled--and I tell you the reforms proposed by the Ministers areabsurd. The Indian is too indolent!"
"Ah, pardon me," said the young man, speaking low and drawing nearer;"that word rouses all my interest. Does it really exist from birth,this indolence of the native, or is it, as some travellers say, only anexcuse of our own for the lack of advancement in our colonial policy?"
"Bah! ask Senor Laruja, who also knows the country well; ask him ifthe ignorance and idleness of the Indians are not unparalleled?"
"In truth!" the little dark man made haste to affirm; "nowhere willyou find men more careless."
"Nor more corrupt, nor more ungrateful."
"Nor more ill-bred."
The young man looked about uneasily. "Gentlemen," said he, stillspeaking low, "it seems to me we are the guests of Indians, and thatthese young ladies----"
"Bah, you are too timid: Santiago does not consider himself an Indian,besides, he isn't here. These are the scruples of a newcomer. Wait alittle. When you have slept in our strapped beds, eaten the tinola,and seen our balls and fetes, you'll change your tone. And more, youwill find that the country is going to ruin; she is ruined already!"
"What does your reverence mean?" cried the lieutenant and Dominicantogether.
"The evil all comes from the fact that the Government sustainswrong-doers in the face of the ministers of God," continued theFranciscan, raising his voice and facing about. "When a curate ridshis cemetery of a malefactor, no one, not even the king, has the rightto interfere; and a wretched general, a petty general from nowhere----"
"Father, His Excellency is viceroy," said the officer, rising. "HisExcellency represents His Majesty the king."
"What Excellency?" retorted the Franciscan, rising in turn. "Who isthis king? For us there is but one King, the legitimate----"
"If you do not retract that, Father, I shall make it known to thegovernor-general," cried the lieutenant.
"Go to him now, go!" retorted Father Damaso; "I'll loan you mycarriage."
The Dominican interposed.
"Senores," said he in a tone of authority, "you should not confusethings, nor seek offence where there is none intended. We mustdistinguish in the words of Father Damaso those of the man from thoseof the priest. The latter per se can never offend, because they areinfallible. In the words of the man, a sub-distinction must be made,into those said ab irato, those said ex ore, but not in corde, andthose said in corde. It is these last only that can offend, and eventhen everything depends. If they were not premeditated in mente,but simply arose per accidens in the heat of the conversation----"
At this interesting point there joined the group an old Spaniard,gentle and inoffensive of aspect. He was lame, and leaned onthe arm of an old native woman, smothered in curls and frizzes,preposterously powdered, and in European dress. With relief everyone turned to salute them. It was Doctor de Espadana and his wife,the Doctora Dona Victorina. The atmosphere cleared.
"Which, Senor Laruja, is the master of the house?" asked the youngprovincial. "I haven't been presented."
"They say he has gone out."
"No presentations are necessary here," said Brother Damaso; "Santiagois a good fellow."
Er hat das Pulfer nicht erfunden. "He didn't invent gunpowder,"added Laruja.
"What, you too, Senor de Laruja?" said Dona Victorina over herfan. "How could the poor man have invented gunpowder when, if whatthey say is true, the Chinese made it centuries ago?"
"The Chinese? 'Twas a Franciscan who invented it," said Brother Damaso.
"A Franciscan, no doubt; he must have been a missionary to China,"said the Senora, not disposed to abandon her idea.
"Who is this with Santiago?" asked the lieutenant. Every one lookedtoward the door, where two men had just entered. They came up to thegroup around the table.
II.
CRISOSTOMO IBARRA.
One was the original of the portrait in oil, and he led by the handa young man in deep black. "Good evening, senores; good evening,fathers," said Captain Tiago, kissing the hands of the priests,"I have the honor of presenting to you Don Crisostomo Ibarra."
At the name of Ibarra there were smothered exclamations. Thelieutenant, forgetting to salute the master of the house, surveyedthe young man from head to foot. Brother Damaso seemed petrified. Thearrival was evidently unexpected. Senor Ibarra exchanged the usualphrases with members of the group. Nothing marked him from other guestssave his black attire. His fine height, his manner, his movements,denoted sane and vigorous youth. His face, frank and engaging, of arich brown, and lightly furrowed--trace of Spanish blood--was rosyfrom a sojourn in the north.
"Ah!" he cried, surprised and delighted, "my father's old friend,Brother Damaso!"
All eyes turned toward the Franciscan, who did not stir.
"Pardon," said Ibarra, puzzled. "I am mistaken."
"You are not mistaken," said the priest at last, in an odd voice;"but your father was not my friend."
Ibarra, astonished, drew slowly back the hand he had offered, andturned to find himself facing the lieutenant, whose eyes had neverleft him.
"Young man, are you the son of Don Rafael Ibarra?"
Crisostomo bowed.
"Then welcome to your country! I knew your father well, one of themost honorable men of the Philippines."
"Senor," replied Ibarra, "what you say dispels my doubts as to hisfate, of which as yet I know nothing."
The old man's eyes filled with tears. He turned away to hide them,and moved off into the crowd.
The master of the house had disappeared. Ibarra was left alone in themiddle of the room. No one presented him to the ladies. He hesitateda moment, then went up to them and said:
"Permit me to forget formalities, and salute the first of mycountrywomen I have seen for years."
No one spoke, though many eyes regarded him with interest. Ibarraturned away, and a jovial man, in native dress, with studs ofbrilliants down his shirt-front, almost ran up to say:
"Senor Ibarra, I wish to know you. I am Captain Tinong, and live nearyou at Tondo. Will you honor us at dinner to-morrow?"
"Thank you," said Ibarra, pleased with the kindness, "but to-morrowI must leave for San Diego."
"What a pity! Well then, on your return----"
"Dinner is served," announced a waiter of the Cafe La Campana.
The guests began to move toward the table, not without much ceremonyon the part of the ladies, especially the natives, who required agreat deal of polite urging.
III.
THE DINNER.
The two monks finding themselves near the head of the table, liketwo candidates for a vacant office, began politely resigning in eachother's favor.
"This is your place, Brother Damaso."
"No, yours, Brother Sibyla."
"You are so much the older friend of the family."
"But you are the curate of the quarter."
This polite contention settled, the guests sat down, no one but Ibarraseeming to think of the master of the house.
"What," said he, "you're not to be with us, Don Santiago?"
But there was no place: Lucullus was not dining with Lucullus.
"Don't trouble yourself," said Captain Tiago, laying his hand on theyoung man's shoulder. "This feast is a thank-offering for your safereturn. Ho, there! bring the tinola! I've ordered the tinola expresslyfor you, Crisostomo."
"When did you leave the country?" Laruja asked Ibarra.
"Seven years ago."
"Then you must have almost forgotten it."
"On the contrary, it has been always in my thoughts; but my countryseems to have forgotten
me."
"Why do you say that?" asked the old lieutenant.
"Because for several months I have had no news, so that I do not evenknow how and when my father died."
The lieutenant could not repress a groan.
"And where were you that they couldn't telegraph you?" asked DonaVictorina. "When we were married, we sent despatches to the peninsula."
"Senora, I was in the far north," said Ibarra.
"You have travelled much," said the blond provincial; "which of theEuropean countries pleased you most?"
"After Spain, my second country, the nations that are free."
"And what struck you as most interesting, most surprising, in thegeneral life of nations--the genius of each, so to put it?" askedLaruja.
Ibarra reflected.
"Before visiting a country I carefully studied its history, and,except the different motives for national pride, there seems tome nothing surprisingly characteristic in any nation. Given itshistory, everything appears natural; each people's wealth and miseryseem in direct proportion to its freedom and its prejudices, and inconsequence, in proportion to the self-sacrifice or selfishness ofits progenitors."
"Did you discover nothing more startling than that?" demandedthe Franciscan, with a mocking laugh. "It was hardly worth whilesquandering money for so slight returns. Not a schoolboy but knowsas much."
