An Eagle Flight

The House on the Pasig.

It was toward the end of October. Don Santiago de los Santos, better known as Captain Tiago, was giving a dinner; and though, contrary to custom, he had not announced it until that very afternoon, it had become before evening the sole topic of conversation, not only at Binondo, but in the other suburbs of Manila, and even in the city itself. Captain Tiago passed for the most lavish of entertainers, and it was well known that the doors of his home, like those of his country, were closed to nobody and nothing save commerce and all new or audacious ideas. The news spread, therefore, with lightning rapidity 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, which may yet be recognized, if an earthquake has not demolished it. This house, rather large and of a style common to the country, stood near an arm of the Pasig, called the Boco de Binondo, a rio which, like all others of Manila, washing along the multiple output of baths, sewers, and fishing grounds serves as a means of transport, and even furnishes drinking-water, if such be the humor of the Chinese carrier. Scarcely at intervals of a half-mile is this powerful artery of the quarter where the traffic is most important, the movement most active, dotted with bridges; and these, in ruins at one end six months of the year and inapproachable the remaining six at the other, give horses a pretext for plunging into the water, to the great surprise of preoccupied mortals in carriages dozing tranquilly or philosophizing on the progress of the century.

The house of Captain Tiago was rather low and on lines sufficiently incorrect. A grand staircase with green balustrades, carpeted at intervals, led from the vestibule, with its squares of colored faience, to the main floor, between Chinese pedestals ornamented with fantastic designs, supporting vases and jardinières 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 the centre, a long table, luxuriously set, seemed to promise to diners-out the most soothing satisfaction, at the same time threatening the timid girl-the dalaga-who for six mortal hours must submit to the companionship of strange and diverse people.

In contrast to these mundane preparations, richly colored pictures of religious subjects hung about the walls, and at the end of the apartment, 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." The ceiling was prettily decorated with jewelled Chinese lamps, cages without birds, spheres of crystal faced with colored foil, faded air plants, botetes, etc. On the river side, through fantastic arches, half Chinese, half European, were glimpses of a terrace, with trellises and arbors, illuminated by little colored lanterns. Brilliant chandeliers, reflected in great mirrors, lighted the apartment. On a platform of pine was a superb grand piano. In a panel of the wall, a large portrait in 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 from the women, as in Catholic churches and synagogues. An old cousin of Captain Tiago's was receiving alone. Her appearance was kindly, but her tongue not very flexible to the Castilian. She filled her r?le by offering to the Spaniards trays of cigarettes and buyos, and giving the Filipinos her hand to kiss. The poor old lady, wearied at last, 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 women of the Philippines are exceptional, the feminine part of the assembly remained silent. Scarcely was heard even a yawn, stifled behind a fan. The men made more stir. The most interesting and animated group was 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 the monks was a young Dominican, handsome, brilliant, precociously grave; it was the curate of Binondo. Consummate dialectician, he could escape from 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 was turning gray, he seemed to have preserved all his vigor. His carriage, his glance, his large jaws, his herculean frame, gave him the air of a Roman patrician in disguise. Yet he seemed genial, and if the timbre of his voice was autocratic, his frank and merry laugh removed any disagreeable impression, so far even that one pardoned his appearing in the salon with unshod feet.

One of the provincials, a little man with a black beard, had nothing remarkable 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 conversing with 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 in the Philippines is not one and the same thing."

"But--"

"I, for example," continued Brother Dámaso, raising his voice to cut off the words of his objector, "I, who count twenty-three years of plane and palm, can speak with authority. I spent twenty years in one pueblo. In twenty years one gets acquainted with a town. San Diego had six thousand souls. I knew each inhabitant as if I'd borne and reared him-with which foot this one limped, how that one's pot boiled-and I tell you the reforms proposed by the Ministers are absurd. 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 an excuse of our own for the lack of advancement in our colonial policy?"

"Bah! ask Se?or Laruja, who also knows the country well; ask him if the ignorance and idleness of the Indians are not unparalleled?"

"In truth!" the little dark man made haste to affirm; "nowhere will you find men more careless."

"Nor more corrupt, nor more ungrateful."

"Nor more ill-bred."

The young man looked about uneasily. "Gentlemen," said he, still speaking low, "it seems to me we are the guests of Indians, and that these 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 a little. When you have slept in our strapped beds, eaten the tinola, and seen our balls and fêtes, you'll change your tone. And more, you will find that the country is going to ruin; she is ruined already!"

"What does your reverence mean?" cried the lieutenant and Dominican together.

"The evil all comes from the fact that the Government sustains wrong-doers in the face of the ministers of God," continued the Franciscan, raising his voice and facing about. "When a curate rids his cemetery of a malefactor, no one, not even the king, has the right to interfere; and a wretched general, a petty general from nowhere--"

"Father, His Excellency is viceroy," said the officer, rising. "His Excellency represents His Majesty the king."

"What Excellency?" retorted the Franciscan, rising in turn. "Who is this king? For us there is but one King, the legitimate--"

"If you do not retract that, Father, I shall make it known to the governor-general," cried the lieutenant.

"Go to him now, go!" retorted Father Dámaso; "I'll loan you my carriage."

The Dominican interposed.

"Se?ores," said he in a tone of authority, "you should not confuse things, nor seek offence where there is none intended. We must distinguish in the words of Father Dámaso those of the man from those of the priest. The latter per se can never offend, because they are infallible. 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, and those said in corde. It is these last only that can offend, and even then 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 on the arm of an old native woman, smothered in curls and frizzes, preposterously powdered, and in European dress. With relief every one turned to salute them. It was Doctor de Espada?a and his wife, the Doctora Do?a Victorina. The atmosphere cleared.

"Which, Se?or Laruja, is the master of the house?" asked the young provincial. "I haven't been presented."

"They say he has gone out."

"No presentations are necessary here," said Brother Dámaso; "Santiago is a good fellow."

Er hat das Pulfer nicht erfunden. "He didn't invent gunpowder," added Laruja.

"What, you too, Se?or de Laruja?" said Do?a Victorina over her fan. "How could the poor man have invented gunpowder when, if what they say is true, the Chinese made it centuries ago?"

"The Chinese? 'Twas a Franciscan who invented it," said Brother Dámaso.

"A Franciscan, no doubt; he must have been a missionary to China," said the Se?ora, not disposed to abandon her idea.

"Who is this with Santiago?" asked the lieutenant. Every one looked toward the door, where two men had just entered. They came up to the group around the table.

Crisóstomo Ibarra.

One was the original of the portrait in oil, and he led by the hand a young man in deep black. "Good evening, se?ores; good evening, fathers," said Captain Tiago, kissing the hands of the priests, "I have the honor of presenting to you Don Crisóstomo Ibarra."

At the name of Ibarra there were smothered exclamations. The lieutenant, forgetting to salute the master of the house, surveyed the young man from head to foot. Brother Dámaso seemed petrified. The arrival was evidently unexpected. Se?or Ibarra exchanged the usual phrases with members of the group. Nothing marked him from other guests save his black attire. His fine height, his manner, his movements, denoted sane and vigorous youth. His face, frank and engaging, of a rich brown, and lightly furrowed-trace of Spanish blood-was rosy from a sojourn in the north.

"Ah!" he cried, surprised and delighted, "my father's old friend, Brother Dámaso!"

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, and turned to find himself facing the lieutenant, whose eyes had never left him.

"Young man, are you the son of Don Rafael Ibarra?"

Crisóstomo bowed.

"Then welcome to your country! I knew your father well, one of the most honorable men of the Philippines."

"Se?or," replied Ibarra, "what you say dispels my doubts as to his fate, 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 the middle of the room. No one presented him to the ladies. He hesitated a moment, then went up to them and said:

"Permit me to forget formalities, and salute the first of my countrywomen I have seen for years."

No one spoke, though many eyes regarded him with interest. Ibarra turned away, and a jovial man, in native dress, with studs of brilliants down his shirt-front, almost ran up to say:

"Se?or Ibarra, I wish to know you. I am Captain Tinong, and live near you at Tondo. Will you honor us at dinner to-morrow?"

"Thank you," said Ibarra, pleased with the kindness, "but to-morrow I must leave for San Diego."

"What a pity! Well then, on your return--"

"Dinner is served," announced a waiter of the Café La Campana.

The guests began to move toward the table, not without much ceremony on the part of the ladies, especially the natives, who required a great deal of polite urging.

The Dinner.

The two monks finding themselves near the head of the table, like two candidates for a vacant office, began politely resigning in each other's favor.

"This is your place, Brother Dámaso."

"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 Ibarra seeming 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 the young man's shoulder. "This feast is a thank-offering for your safe return. Ho, there! bring the tinola! I've ordered the tinola expressly for you, Crisóstomo."

"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 country seems 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 even know how and when my father died."

The lieutenant could not repress a groan.

"And where were you that they couldn't telegraph you?" asked Do?a Victorina. "When we were married, we sent despatches to the peninsula."

"Se?ora, I was in the far north," said Ibarra.

"You have travelled much," said the blond provincial; "which of the European countries pleased you most?"

"After Spain, my second country, the nations that are free."

"And what struck you as most interesting, most surprising, in the general life of nations-the genius of each, so to put it?" asked Laruja.

Ibarra reflected.

"Before visiting a country I carefully studied its history, and, except the different motives for national pride, there seems to me nothing surprisingly characteristic in any nation. Given its history, everything appears natural; each people's wealth and misery seem in direct proportion to its freedom and its prejudices, and in consequence, in proportion to the self-sacrifice or selfishness of its progenitors."

"Did you discover nothing more startling than that?" demanded the Franciscan, with a mocking laugh. "It was hardly worth while squandering money for so slight returns. Not a schoolboy but knows as much."

The guests eyed one another, fearful of what might follow. Ibarra, astonished, remained silent a moment, then said quietly:

"Se?ores, do not wonder at these words of Brother Dámaso. He was my curate when I was a little boy, and with his reverence the years don't count. I thank him for thus recalling the time when he was often an honored guest at my father's table."

Brother Sibyla furtively observed the Franciscan, who was trembling slightly. At the first possible opportunity Ibarra rose.

"You will pardon me if I excuse myself," he said. "I arrived only a few hours ago, and have matters of importance to attend to. The dinner is over. I drink little wine, and scarcely taste liquors." And raising a glass as yet untouched, "Se?ores," he said, "Spain and the Philippines forever!"

"You're not going!" said Santiago in amazement. "Maria Clara and her friends will be with us in a moment. What shall I say to her?"

"That I was obliged to go," said Ibarra, "and that I'm coming early in the morning." And he went out.

The Franciscan unburdened himself.

"You saw his arrogance," he said to the blond provincial. "These young fellows won't take reproof from a priest. That comes of sending them to Europe. The Government ought to prohibit it."

That night the young provincial added to his "Colonial Studies," this paragraph: "In the Philippines, the least important person at a feast is he who gives it. You begin by showing your host to the door, and all goes merrily.... In the present state of affairs, it would be almost a kindness to prohibit young Filipinos from leaving their country, if not even from learning to read."