A Social Gathering

On the last of October Don Santiago de los Santos, popularly known as

Capitan Tiago, gave a dinner. In spite of the fact that, contrary to his usual
custom, he had made the announcement only that afternoon, it was already
the sole topic of conversation in Binondo and adjacent districts, and even in
the Walled City, for at that time Capitan Tiago was considered one of the
most hospitable of men, and it was well known that his house, like his
country, shut its doors against nothing except commerce and all new or bold
ideas. Like an electric shock the announcement ran through the world of
parasites, bores, and hangers-on, whom God in His infinite bounty creates
and so kindly multiplies in Manila. Some looked at once for shoe-polish,
others for buttons and cravats, but all were especially concerned about how
to greet the master of the house in the most familiar tone, in order to create
an atmosphere of ancient friendship or, if occasion should arise, to excuse a
late arrival.

This dinner was given in a house on Calle Anloague, and although we do

not remember the number we will describe it in such a way that it may still
be recognized, provided the earthquakes have not destroyed it. We do not
believe that its owner has had it torn down, for such labors are generally
entrusted to God or nature—which Powers hold the contracts also for many
of the projects of our government. It is a rather large building, in the style of
many in the country, and fronts upon the arm of the Pasig which is known
to some as the Binondo River, and which, like all the streams in Manila,
plays the varied rôles of bath, sewer, laundry, fishery, means of
transportation and communication, and even drinking water if the Chinese
water-carrier finds it convenient. It is worthy of note that in the distance of
nearly a mile this important artery of the district, where traffic is most dense
and movement most deafening, can boast of only one wooden bridge, which
is out of repair on one side for six months and impassable on the other for
the rest of the year, so that during the hot season the ponies take advantage
of this permanent status quo to jump off the bridge into the water, to the
great surprise of the abstracted mortal who may be dozing inside the
carriage or philosophizing upon the progress of the age.

The house of which we are speaking is somewhat low and not exactly
correct in all its lines: whether the architect who built it was afflicted with
poor eyesight or whether the earthquakes and typhoons have twisted it out
of shape, no one can say with certainty. A wide staircase with green newels
and carpeted steps leads from the tiled entrance up to the main floor
between rows of flower-pots set upon pedestals of motley-colored and
fantastically decorated Chinese porcelain. Since there are neither porters
nor servants who demand invitation cards, we will go in, O you who read
this, whether friend or foe, if you are attracted by the strains of the
orchestra, the lights, or the suggestive rattling of dishes, knives, and forks,
and if you wish to see what such a gathering is like in the distant Pearl of
the Orient. Gladly, and for my own comfort, I should spare you this
description of the house, were it not of great importance, since we mortals
in general are very much like tortoises: we are esteemed and classified
according to our shells; in this and still other respects the mortals of the
Philippines in particular also resemble tortoises.

If we go up the stairs, we immediately find ourselves in a spacious hallway,

called there, for some unknown reason, the caida, which tonight serves as
the dining-room and at the same time affords a place for the orchestra. In
the center a large table profusely and expensively decorated seems to
beckon to the hanger-on with sweet promises, while it threatens the bashful
maiden, the simple dalaga, with two mortal hours in the company of
strangers whose language and conversation usually have a very restricted
and special character.

Contrasted with these terrestrial preparations are the motley paintings on

the walls representing religious matters, such as “Purgatory,” “Hell,” “The
Last Judgment,” “The Death of the Just,” and “The Death of the Sinner.”

At the back of the room, fastened in a splendid and elegant framework, in

the Renaissance style, possibly by Arévalo, is a glass case in which are seen
the figures of two old women. The inscription on this reads: “Our Lady of
Peace and Prosperous Voyages, who is worshiped in Antipolo, visiting in
the disguise of a beggar the holy and renowned Capitana Inez during her
sickness.”1 While the work reveals little taste or art, yet it possesses in
compensation an extreme realism, for to judge from the yellow and bluish
tints of her face the sick woman seems to be already a decaying corpse, and
the glasses and other objects, accompaniments of long illness, are so
minutely reproduced that even their contents may be distinguished. In
looking at these pictures, which excite the appetite and inspire gay bucolic
ideas, one may perhaps be led to think that the malicious host is well
acquainted with the characters of the majority of those who are to sit at his
table and that, in order to conceal his own way of thinking, he has hung
from the ceiling costly Chinese lanterns; bird-cages without birds; red,
green, and blue globes of frosted glass; faded air-plants; and dried and
inflated fishes, which they call botetes. The view is closed on the side of the
river by curious wooden arches, half Chinese and half European, affording
glimpses of a terrace with arbors and bowers faintly lighted by paper
lanterns of many colors.

In the sala, among massive mirrors and gleaming chandeliers, the guests are
assembled. Here, on a raised platform, stands a grand piano of great price,
which tonight has the additional virtue of not being played upon. Here,
hanging on the wall, is an oil-painting of a handsome man in full dress,
rigid, erect, straight as the tasseled cane he holds in his stiff, ring-covered
fingers—the whole seeming to say, “Ahem! See how well dressed and how
dignified I am!” The furnishings of the room are elegant and perhaps
uncomfortable and unhealthful, since the master of the house would
consider not so much the comfort and health of his guests as his own
ostentation, “A terrible thing is dysentery,” he would say to them, “but you
are sitting in European chairs and that is something you don’t find every
day.”

This room is almost filled with people, the men being separated from the
women as in synagogues and Catholic churches. The women consist of a
number of Filipino and Spanish maidens, who, when they open their
mouths to yawn, instantly cover them with their fans and who murmur only
a few words to each other, any conversation ventured upon dying out in
monosyllables like the sounds heard in a house at night, sounds made by the
rats and lizards. Is it perhaps the different likenesses of Our Lady hanging
on the walls that force them to silence and a religious demeanor or is it that
the women here are an exception?

A cousin of Capitan Tiago, a sweet-faced old woman, who speaks Spanish

quite badly, is the only one receiving the ladies. To offer to the Spanish
ladies a plate of cigars and buyos, to extend her hand to her countrywomen
to be kissed, exactly as the friars do,—this is the sum of her courtesy, her
policy. The poor old lady soon became bored, and taking advantage of the
noise of a plate breaking, rushed precipitately away, muttering, “Jesús! Just
wait, you rascals!” and failed to reappear.

The men, for their part, are making more of a stir. Some cadets in one
corner are conversing in a lively manner but in low tones, looking around
now and then to point out different persons in the room while they laugh
more or less openly among themselves. In contrast, two foreigners dressed
in white are promenading silently from one end of the room to the other
with their hands crossed behind their backs, like the bored passengers on
the deck of a ship. All the interest and the greatest animation proceed from
a group composed of two priests, two civilians, and a soldier who are seated
around a small table on which are seen bottles of wine and English biscuits.

The soldier, a tall, elderly lieutenant with an austere countenance—a Duke

of Alva straggling behind in the roster of the Civil Guard—talks little, but
in a harsh, curt way. One of the priests, a youthful Dominican friar,
handsome, graceful, polished as the gold-mounted eyeglasses he wears,
maintains a premature gravity. He is the curate of Binondo and has been in
former years a professor in the college of San Juan de Letran,2 where he
enjoyed the reputation of being a consummate dialectician, so much so that
in the days when the sons of Guzman3 still dared to match themselves in
subtleties with laymen, the able disputant B. de Luna had never been able
either to catch or to confuse him, the distinctions made by Fray Sibyla
leaving his opponent in the situation of a fisherman who tries to catch eels
with a lasso. The Dominican says little, appearing to weigh his words.
Quite in contrast, the other priest, a Franciscan, talks much and gesticulates
more. In spite of the fact that his hair is beginning to turn gray, he seems to
be preserving well his robust constitution, while his regular features, his
rather disquieting glance, his wide jaws and herculean frame give him the
appearance of a Roman noble in disguise and make us involuntarily recall
one of those three monks of whom Heine tells in his “Gods in Exile,” who
at the September equinox in the Tyrol used to cross a lake at midnight and
each time place in the hand of the poor boatman a silver piece, cold as ice,
which left him full of terror.4 But Fray Damaso is not so mysterious as they
were. He is full of merriment, and if the tone of his voice is rough like that
of a man who has never had occasion to correct himself and who believes
that whatever he says is holy and above improvement, still his frank, merry
laugh wipes out this disagreeable impression and even obliges us to pardon
his showing to the room bare feet and hairy legs that would make the
fortune of a Mendieta in the Quiapo fairs.5

One of the civilians is a very small man with a black beard, the only thing
notable about him being his nose, which, to judge from its size, ought not to
belong to him. The other is a rubicund youth, who seems to have arrived
but recently in the country. With him the Franciscan is carrying on a lively
discussion.

“You’ll see,” the friar was saying, “when you’ve been here a few months
you’ll be convinced of what I say. It’s one thing to govern in Madrid and
another to live in the Philippines.”

“But—”

“I, for example,” continued Fray Damaso, raising his voice still higher to
prevent the other from speaking, “I, for example, who can look back over
twenty-three years of bananas and morisqueta, know whereof I speak.
Don’t come at me with theories and fine speeches, for I know the Indian.6
Mark well that the moment I arrived in the country I was assigned to a
toxin, small it is true, but especially devoted to agriculture. I didn’t
understand Tagalog very well then, but I was, soon confessing the women,
and we understood one another and they came to like me so well that three
years later, when I was transferred to another and larger town, made vacant
by the death of the native curate, all fell to weeping, they heaped gifts upon
me, they escorted me with music—”

“But that only goes to show—”

“Wait, wait! Don’t be so hasty! My successor remained a shorter time, and

when he left he had more attendance, more tears, and more music. Yet he
had been more given to whipping and had raised the fees in the parish to
almost double.”

“But you will allow me—”

“But that isn’t all. I stayed in the town of San Diego twenty years and it has
been only a few months since I left it.”

Here he showed signs of chagrin.

“Twenty years, no one can deny, are more than sufficient to get acquainted
with a town. San Diego has a population of six thousand souls and I knew
every inhabitant as well as if I had been his mother and wet-nurse. I knew
in which foot this one was lame, where the shoe pinched that one, who was
courting that girl, what affairs she had had and with whom, who was the
real father of the child, and so on—for I was the confessor of every last one,
and they took care not to fail in their duty. Our host, Santiago, will tell you
whether I am speaking the truth, for he has a lot of land there and that was
where we first became friends. Well then, you may see what the Indian is:
when I left I was escorted by only a few old women and some of the tertiary
brethren—and that after I had been there twenty years!”

“But I don’t see what that has to do with the abolition of the tobacco
monopoly,”7 ventured the rubicund youth, taking advantage of the
Franciscan’s pausing to drink a glass of sherry.

Fray Damaso was so greatly surprised that he nearly let his glass fall. He
remained for a moment staring fixedly at the young man.
“What? How’s that?” he was finally able to exclaim in great wonderment.
“Is it possible that you don’t see it as clear as day? Don’t you see, my son,
that all this proves plainly that the reforms of the ministers are irrational?”

It was now the youth’s turn to look perplexed. The lieutenant wrinkled his
eyebrows a little more and the small man nodded toward Fray Damaso
equivocally. The Dominican contented himself with almost turning his back
on the whole group.

“Do you really believe so?” the young man at length asked with great
seriousness, as he looked at the friar with curiosity.

“Do I believe so? As I believe the Gospel! The Indian is so indolent!”

“Ah, pardon me for interrupting you,” said the young man, lowering his
voice and drawing his chair a little closer, “but you have said something
that awakens all my interest. Does this indolence actually, naturally, exist
among the natives or is there some truth in what a foreign traveler says: that
with this indolence we excuse our own, as well as our backwardness and
our colonial system. He referred to other colonies whose inhabitants belong
to the same race—”

“Bah, jealousy! Ask Señor Laruja, who also knows this country. Ask him if
there is any equal to the ignorance and indolence of the Indian.”

“It’s true,” affirmed the little man, who was referred to as Señor Laruja. “In
no part of the world can you find any one more indolent than the Indian, in
no part of the world.”

“Nor more vicious, nor more ungrateful!”

“Nor more unmannerly!”

The rubicund youth began to glance about nervously. “Gentlemen,” he

whispered, “I believe that we are in the house of an Indian. Those young
ladies—”
“Bah, don’t be so apprehensive! Santiago doesn’t consider himself an
Indian—and besides, he’s not here. And what if he were! These are the
nonsensical ideas of the newcomers. Let a few months pass and you will
change your opinion, after you have attended a lot of fiestas and bailúhan,
slept on cots, and eaten your fill of tinola.”

“Ah, is this thing that you call tinola a variety of lotus which makes people
—er—forgetful?”

“Nothing of the kind!” exclaimed Fray Damaso with a smile. “You’re

getting absurd. Tinola is a stew of chicken and squash. How long has it
been since you got here?”

“Four days,” responded the youth, rather offended.

“Have you come as a government employee?”

“No, sir, I’ve come at my own expense to study the country.”

“Man, what a rare bird!” exclaimed Fray Damaso, staring at him with
curiosity. “To come at one’s own expense and for such foolishness! What a
wonder! When there are so many books! And with two fingerbreadths of
forehead! Many have written books as big as that! With two fingerbreadths
of forehead!”

The Dominican here brusquely broke in upon the conversation. “Did your
Reverence, Fray Damaso, say that you had been twenty years in the town of
San Diego and that you had left it? Wasn’t your Reverence satisfied with
the town?”

At this question, which was put in a very natural and almost negligent tone,
Fray Damaso suddenly lost all his merriment and stopped laughing. “No!”
he grunted dryly, and let himself back heavily against the back of his chair.

The Dominican went on in a still more indifferent tone. “It must be painful
to leave a town where one has been for twenty years and which he knows as
well as the clothes he wears. I certainly was sorry to leave Kamiling and
that after I had been there only a few months. But my superiors did it for the
good of the Orders for my own good.”

Fray Damaso, for the first time that evening, seemed to be very thoughtful.
Suddenly he brought his fist down on the arm of his chair and with a heavy
breath exclaimed: “Either Religion is a fact or it is not! That is, either the
curates are free or they are not! The country is going to ruin, it is lost!” And
again he struck the arm of his chair.

Everybody in the sala turned toward the group with astonished looks. The
Dominican raised his head to stare at the Franciscan from under his glasses.
The two foreigners paused a moment, stared with an expression of mingled
severity and reproof, then immediately continued their promenade.

“He’s in a bad humor because you haven’t treated him with deference,”
murmured Señor Laruja into the ear of the rubicund youth.

“What does your Reverence mean? What’s the trouble?” inquired the
Dominican and the lieutenant at the same time, but in different tones.

“That’s why so many calamities come! The ruling powers support heretics
against the ministers of God!” continued the Franciscan, raising his heavy
fists.

“What do you mean?” again inquired the frowning lieutenant, half rising
from his chair.

“What do I mean?” repeated Fray Damaso, raising his voice and facing the
lieutenant. “I’ll tell you what I mean. I, yes I, mean to say that when a priest
throws out of his cemetery the corpse of a heretic, no one, not even the
King himself, has any right to interfere and much less to impose any
punishment! But a little General—a little General Calamity—”

“Padre, his Excellency is the Vice-Regal Patron!” shouted the soldier, rising
to his feet.
“Excellency! Vice-Regal Patron! What of that!” retorted the Franciscan,
also rising. “In other times he would have been dragged down a staircase as
the religious orders once did with the impious Governor Bustamente.8
Those were indeed the days of faith.”

“I warn you that I can’t permit this! His Excellency represents his Majesty
the King!”

“King or rook! What difference does that make? For us there is no king
other than the legitimate9—”

“Halt!” shouted the lieutenant in a threatening tone, as if he were

commanding his soldiers. “Either you withdraw what you have said or
tomorrow I will report it to his Excellency!”

“Go ahead—right now—go on!” was the sarcastic rejoinder of Fray

Damaso as he approached the officer with clenched fists. “Do you think that
because I wear the cloth, I’m afraid? Go now, while I can lend you my
carriage!”

The dispute was taking a ludicrous turn, but fortunately the Dominican
intervened. “Gentlemen,” he began in an authoritative tone and with the
nasal twang that so well becomes the friars, “you must not confuse things or
seek for offenses where there are none. We must distinguish in the words of
Fray Damaso those of the man from those of the priest. The latter, as such,
per se, can never give offense, because they spring from absolute truth,
while in those of the man there is a secondary distinction to be made: those
which he utters ab irato, those which he utters ex ore, but not in corde, and
those which he does utter in corde. These last are the only ones that can
really offend, and only according to whether they preexisted as a motive in
mente, or arose solely per accidens in the heat of the discussion, if there
really exist—”

“But I, by accidens and for my own part, understand his motives, Padre
Sibyla,” broke in the old soldier, who saw himself about to be entangled in
so many distinctions that he feared lest he might still be held to blame. “I
understand the motives about which your Reverence is going to make
distinctions. During the absence of Padre Damaso from San Diego, his
coadjutor buried the body of an extremely worthy individual—yes, sir,
extremely worthy, for I had had dealings with him many times and had been
entertained in his house. What if he never went to confession, what does
that matter? Neither do I go to confession! But to say that he committed
suicide is a lie, a slander! A man such as he was, who has a son upon whom
he centers his affection and hopes, a man who has faith in God, who
recognizes his duties to society, a just and honorable man, does not commit
suicide. This much I will say and will refrain from expressing the rest of my
thoughts here, so please your Reverence.”

Then, turning his back on the Franciscan, he went on: “Now then, this priest
on his return to the town, after maltreating the poor coadjutor, had the
corpse dug up and taken away from the cemetery to be buried I don’t know
where. The people of San Diego were cowardly enough not to protest,
although it is true that few knew of the outrage. The dead man had no
relatives there and his only son was in Europe. But his Excellency learned
of the affair and as he is an upright man asked for some punishment—and
Padre Damaso was transferred to a better town. That’s all there is to it. Now
your Reverence can make your distinctions.”

So saying, he withdrew from the group.

“I’m sorry that I inadvertently brought up so delicate a subject,” said Padre

Sibyla sadly. “But, after all, if there has been a gain in the change of towns
—”

“How is there to be a gain? And what of all the things that are lost in
moving, the letters, and the—and everything that is mislaid?” interrupted
Fray Damaso, stammering in the vain effort to control his anger.

Little by little the party resumed its former tranquillity. Other guests had
come in, among them a lame old Spaniard of mild and inoffensive aspect
leaning on the arm of an elderly Filipina, who was resplendent in frizzes
and paint and a European gown. The group welcomed them heartily, and
Doctor De Espadaña and his señora, the Doctora Doña Victorina, took their
seats among our acquaintances. Some newspaper reporters and shopkeepers
greeted one another and moved about aimlessly without knowing just what
to do.

“But can you tell me, Señor Laruja, what kind of man our host is?” inquired
the rubicund youth. “I haven’t been introduced to him yet.”

“They say that he has gone out. I haven’t seen him either.”

“There’s no need of introductions here,” volunteered Fray Damaso.

“Santiago is made of the right stuff.”

“No, he’s not the man who invented gunpowder,”10 added Laruja.

“You too, Señor Laruja,” exclaimed Doña Victorina in mild reproach, as she
fanned herself. “How could the poor man invent gunpowder if, as is said,
the Chinese invented it centuries ago?”

“The Chinese! Are you crazy?” cried Fray Damaso. “Out with you! A
Franciscan, one of my Order, Fray What-do-you-call-him Savalls,11
invented it in the—ah the seventh century!”

“A Franciscan? Well, he must have been a missionary in China, that Padre

Savalls,” replied the lady, who did not thus easily part from her beliefs.

“Schwartz,12 perhaps you mean, señora,” said Fray Sibyla, without looking
at her.

“I don’t know. Fray Damaso said a Franciscan and I was only repeating.”

“Well, Savalls or Chevas, what does it matter? The difference of a letter

doesn’t make him a Chinaman,” replied the Franciscan in bad humor.

“And in the fourteenth century, not the seventh,” added the Dominican in a
tone of correction, as if to mortify the pride of the other friar.
“Well, neither does a century more or less make him a Dominican.”

“Don’t get angry, your Reverence,” admonished Padre Sibyla, smiling. “So
much the better that he did invent it so as to save his brethren the trouble.”

“And did you say, Padre Sibyla, that it was in the fourteenth century?”
asked Doña Victorina with great interest. “Was that before or after Christ?”

Fortunately for the individual questioned, two persons entered the room.

1 A similar picture is found in the convento at Antipolo.—Author’s note.

2 A school of secondary instruction conducted by the Dominican Fathers, by whom it was taken over
in 1640. “It had its first beginning in the house of a pious Spaniard, called Juan Geronimo Guerrero,
who had dedicated himself, with Christian piety, to gathering orphan boys in his house, where he
raised, clothed, and sustained them, and taught them to read and to write, and much more, to live in
the fear of God.”—Blair and Robertson, The Philippine Islands, Vol. XLV, p. 208.—TR.

3 The Dominican friars, whose order was founded by Dominic de Guzman.—TR.

4 In the story mentioned, the three monks were the old Roman god Bacchus and two of his satellites,
in the disguise of Franciscan friars,—TR.
5 According to a note to the Barcelona edition of this novel, Mendieta was a character well known in
Manila, doorkeeper at the Alcaldía, impresario of children’s theaters, director of a merry-go-round,
etc.—TR.
6 See Glossary.
7 The “tobacco monopoly” was established during the administration of Basco de Vargas (1778–
1787), one of the ablest governors Spain sent to the Philippines, in order to provide revenue for the
local government and to encourage agricultural development. The operation of the monopoly,
however, soon degenerated into a system of “graft” and petty abuse which bore heartily upon the
natives (see Zuñiga’s Estadismo), and the abolition of it in 1881 was one of the heroic efforts made
by the Spanish civil administrators to adjust the archaic colonial system to the changing conditions in
the Archipelago.—TR.

8 As a result of his severity in enforcing the payment of sums due the royal treasury on account of the
galleon trade, in which the religious orders were heavily interested, Governor Fernando de Bustillos
Bustamente y Rueda met a violent death at the hands of a mob headed by friars, October 11, 1719.
See Blair and Robertson, The Philippine Islands, Vol. XLIV; Montero y Vidal, Historia General de
Filipinas, Vol. I, Chap. XXXV.—TR.

9 A reference to the fact that the clerical party in Spain refused to accept the decree of Ferdinand VII
setting aside the Salic law and naming his daughter Isabella as his successor, and, upon the death of
Ferdinand, supported the claim of the nearest male heir, Don Carlos de Bourbon, thus giving rise to
the Carlist movement. Some writers state that severe measures had to be adopted to compel many of
the friars in the Philippines to use the feminine pronoun in their prayers for the sovereign, just whom
the reverend gentlemen expected to deceive not being explained.—TR.

10 An apothegm equivalent to the English, “He’ll never set any rivers on fire.”—TR.
11 The name of a Carlist leader in Spain.—TR.
12 A German Franciscan monk who is said to have invented gunpowder about 1330.
Chapter II
Crisostomo Ibarra
It was not two beautiful and well-gowned young women that attracted the
attention of all, even including Fray Sibyla, nor was it his Excellency the
Captain-General with his staff, that the lieutenant should start from his
abstraction and take a couple of steps forward, or that Fray Damaso should
look as if turned to stone; it was simply the original of the oil-painting
leading by the hand a young man dressed in deep mourning.

“Good evening, gentlemen! Good evening, Padre!” were the greetings of

Capitan Tiago as he kissed the hands of the priests, who forgot to bestow
upon him their benediction. The Dominican had taken off his glasses to
stare at the newly arrived youth, while Fray Damaso was pale and
unnaturally wide-eyed.

“I have the honor of presenting to you Don Crisostomo Ibarra, the son of
my deceased friend,” went on Capitan Tiago. “The young gentleman has
just arrived from Europe and I went to meet him.”

At the mention of the name exclamations were heard. The lieutenant forgot
to pay his respects to his host and approached the young man, looking him
over from head to foot. The young man himself at that moment was
exchanging the conventional greetings with all in the group, nor did there
seem to be any thing extraordinary about him except his mourning garments
in the center of that brilliantly lighted room. Yet in spite of them his
remarkable stature, his features, and his movements breathed forth an air of
healthy youthfulness in which both body and mind had equally developed.
There might have been noticed in his frank, pleasant face some faint traces
of Spanish blood showing through a beautiful brown color, slightly flushed
at the cheeks as a result perhaps of his residence in cold countries.

“What!” he exclaimed with joyful surprise, “the curate of my native town!

Padre Damaso, my father’s intimate friend!”
Every look in the room was directed toward the Franciscan, who made no
movement.

“Pardon me, perhaps I’m mistaken,” added Ibarra, embarrassed.

“You are not mistaken,” the friar was at last able to articulate in a changed
voice, “but your father was never an intimate friend of mine.”

Ibarra slowly withdrew his extended hand, looking greatly surprised, and
turned to encounter the gloomy gaze of the lieutenant fixed on him.

“Young man, are you the son of Don Rafael Ibarra?” he asked.

The youth bowed. Fray Damaso partly rose in his chair and stared fixedly at
the lieutenant.

“Welcome back to your country! And may you be happier in it than your
father was!” exclaimed the officer in a trembling voice. “I knew him well
and can say that he was one of the worthiest and most honorable men in the
Philippines.”

“Sir,” replied Ibarra, deeply moved, “the praise you bestow upon my father
removes my doubts about the manner of his death, of which I, his son, am
yet ignorant.”

The eyes of the old soldier filled with tears and turning away hastily he
withdrew. The young man thus found himself alone in the center of the
room. His host having disappeared, he saw no one who might introduce him
to the young ladies, many of whom were watching him with interest. After
a few moments of hesitation he started toward them in a simple and natural
manner.

“Allow me,” he said, “to overstep the rules of strict etiquette. It has been
seven years since I have been in my own country and upon returning to it I
cannot suppress my admiration and refrain from paying my respects to its
most precious ornaments, the ladies.”
But as none of them ventured a reply, he found himself obliged to retire. He
then turned toward a group of men who, upon seeing him approach,
arranged themselves in a semicircle.

“Gentlemen,” he addressed them, “it is a custom in Germany, when a

stranger finds himself at a function and there is no one to introduce him to
those present, that he give his name and so introduce himself. Allow me to
adopt this usage here, not to introduce foreign customs when our own are so
beautiful, but because I find myself driven to it by necessity. I have already
paid my respects to the skies and to the ladies of my native land; now I wish
to greet its citizens, my fellow-countrymen. Gentlemen, my name is Juan
Crisostomo Ibarra y Magsalin.”

The others gave their names, more or less obscure, and unimportant here.

“My name is A———,” said one youth dryly, as he made a slight bow.

“Then I have the honor of addressing the poet whose works have done so
much to keep up my enthusiasm for my native land. It is said that you do
not write any more, but I could not learn the reason.”

“The reason? Because one does not seek inspiration in order to debase
himself and lie. One writer has been imprisoned for having put a very
obvious truth into verse. They may have called me a poet but they sha’n’t
call me a fool.”

“And may I enquire what that truth was?”

“He said that the lion’s son is also a lion. He came very near to being exiled
for it,” replied the strange youth, moving away from the group.

A man with a smiling face, dressed in the fashion of the natives of the
country, with diamond studs in his shirt-bosom, came up at that moment
almost running. He went directly to Ibarra and grasped his hand, saying,
“Señor Ibarra, I’ve been eager to make your acquaintance. Capitan Tiago is
a friend of mine and I knew your respected father. I am known as Capitan
Tinong and live in Tondo, where you will always be welcome. I hope that
you will honor me with a visit. Come and dine with us tomorrow.” He
smiled and rubbed his hands.

“Thank you,” replied Ibarra, warmly, charmed with such amiability, “but
tomorrow morning I must leave for San Diego.”

“How unfortunate! Then it will be on your return.”

“Dinner is served!” announced a waiter from the café La Campana, and the
guests began to file out toward the table, the women, especially the
Filipinas, with great hesitation.
Chapter III
The Dinner
Jele, jele, bago quiere.1

Fray Sibyla seemed to be very content as he moved along tranquilly with

the look of disdain no longer playing about his thin, refined lips. He even
condescended to speak to the lame doctor, De Espadaña, who answered in
monosyllables only, as he was somewhat of a stutterer. The Franciscan was
in a frightful humor, kicking at the chairs and even elbowing a cadet out of
his way. The lieutenant was grave while the others talked vivaciously,
praising the magnificence of the table. Doña Victorina, however, was just
turning up her nose in disdain when she suddenly became as furious as a
trampled serpent—the lieutenant had stepped on the train of her gown.

“Haven’t you any eyes?” she demanded.

“Yes, señora, two better than yours, but the fact is that I was admiring your
frizzes,” retorted the rather ungallant soldier as he moved away from her.

As if from instinct the two friars both started toward the head of the table,
perhaps from habit, and then, as might have been expected, the same thing
happened that occurs with the competitors for a university position, who
openly exalt the qualifications and superiority of their opponents, later
giving to understand that just the contrary was meant, and who murmur and
grumble when they do not receive the appointment.

“For you, Fray Damaso.”

“For you, Fray Sibyla.”

“An older friend of the family—confessor of the deceased lady—age,

dignity, and authority—”
“Not so very old, either! On the other hand, you are the curate of the
district,” replied Fray Damaso sourly, without taking his hand from the back
of the chair.

“Since you command it, I obey,” concluded Fray Sibyla, disposing himself
to take the seat.

“I don’t command it!” protested the Franciscan. “I don’t command it!”

Fray Sibyla was about to seat himself without paying any more attention to
these protests when his eyes happened to encounter those of the lieutenant.
According to clerical opinion in the Philippines, the highest secular official
is inferior to a friar-cook: cedant arma togae, said Cicero in the Senate—
cedant arma cottae, say the friars in the Philippines.2

But Fray Sibyla was a well-bred person, so he said, “Lieutenant, here we

are in the world and not in the church. The seat of honor belongs to you.”
To judge from the tone of his voice, however, even in the world it really did
belong to him, and the lieutenant, either to keep out of trouble or to avoid
sitting between two friars, curtly declined.

None of the claimants had given a thought to their host. Ibarra noticed him
watching the scene with a smile of satisfaction.

“How’s this, Don Santiago, aren’t you going to sit down with us?”

But all the seats were occupied; Lucullus was not to sup in the house of
Lucullus.

“Sit still, don’t get up!” said Capitan Tiago, placing his hand on the young
man’s shoulder. “This fiesta is for the special purpose of giving thanks to
the Virgin for your safe arrival. Oy! Bring on the tinola! I ordered tinola as
you doubtless have not tasted any for so long a time.”

A large steaming tureen was brought in. The Dominican, after muttering the
benedicite, to which scarcely any one knew how to respond, began to serve
the contents. But whether from carelessness or other cause, Padre Damaso
received a plate in which a bare neck and a tough wing of chicken floated
about in a large quantity of soup amid lumps of squash, while the others
were eating legs and breasts, especially Ibarra, to whose lot fell the second
joints. Observing all this, the Franciscan mashed up some pieces of squash,
barely tasted the soup, dropped his spoon noisily, and roughly pushed his
plate away. The Dominican was very busy talking to the rubicund youth.

“How long have you been away from the country?” Laruja asked Ibarra.

“Almost seven years.”

“Then you have probably forgotten all about it.”

“Quite the contrary. Even if my country does seem to have forgotten me, I
have always thought about it.”

“How do you mean that it has forgotten you?” inquired the rubicund youth.

“I mean that it has been a year since I have received any news from here, so
that I find myself a stranger who does not yet know how and when his
father died.”

This statement drew a sudden exclamation from the lieutenant.

“And where were you that you didn’t telegraph?” asked Doña Victorina.
“When we were married we telegraphed to the Peñinsula.”3

“Señora, for the past two years I have been in the northern part of Europe,
in Germany and Russian Poland.”

Doctor De Espadaña, who until now had not ventured upon any
conversation, thought this a good opportunity to say something. “I—I knew
in S-spain a P-pole from W-warsaw, c-called S-stadtnitzki, if I r-remember
c-correctly. P-perhaps you s-saw him?” he asked timidly and almost
blushingly.
“It’s very likely,” answered Ibarra in a friendly manner, “but just at this
moment I don’t recall him.”

“B-but you c-couldn’t have c-confused him with any one else,” went on the
Doctor, taking courage. “He was r-ruddy as gold and t-talked Spanish very
b-badly.”

“Those are good clues, but unfortunately while there I talked Spanish only
in a few consulates.”

“How then did you get along?” asked the wondering Doña Victorina.

“The language of the country served my needs, madam.”

“Do you also speak English?” inquired the Dominican, who had been in
Hongkong, and who was a master of pidgin-English, that adulteration of
Shakespeare’s tongue used by the sons of the Celestial Empire.

“I stayed in England a year among people who talked nothing but English.”

“Which country of Europe pleased you the most?” asked the rubicund
youth.

“After Spain, my second fatherland, any country of free Europe.”

“And you who seem to have traveled so much, tell us what do you consider
the most notable thing that you have seen?” inquired Laruja.

Ibarra appeared to reflect. “Notable—in what way?”

“For example, in regard to the life of the people—the social, political,

religious life—in general, in its essential features—as a whole.”

Ibarra paused thoughtfully before replying. “Frankly, I like everything in

those people, setting aside the national pride of each one. But before
visiting a country, I tried to familiarize myself with its history, its Exodus, if
I may so speak, and afterwards I found everything quite natural. I have
observed that the prosperity or misery of each people is in direct proportion
to its liberties or its prejudices and, accordingly, to the sacrifices or the
selfishness of its forefathers.”

“And haven’t you observed anything more than that?” broke in the
Franciscan with a sneer. Since the beginning of the dinner he had not
uttered a single word, his whole attention having been taking up, no doubt,
with the food. “It wasn’t worth while to squander your fortune to learn so
trifling a thing. Any schoolboy knows that.”

Ibarra was placed in an embarrassing position, and the rest looked from one
to the other as if fearing a disagreeable scene. He was about to say, “The
dinner is nearly over and his Reverence is now satiated,” but restrained
himself and merely remarked to the others, “Gentlemen, don’t be surprised
at the familiarity with which our former curate treats me. He treated me so
when I was a child, and the years seem to make no difference in his
Reverence. I appreciate it, too, because it recalls the days when his
Reverence visited our home and honored my father’s table.”

The Dominican glanced furtively at the Franciscan, who was trembling

visibly. Ibarra continued as he rose from the table: “You will now permit me
to retire, since, as I have just arrived and must go away tomorrow morning,
there remain some important business matters for me to attend to. The
principal part of the dinner is over and I drink but little wine and seldom
touch cordials. Gentlemen, all for Spain and the Philippines!” Saying this,
he drained his glass, which he had not before touched. The old lieutenant
silently followed his example.

“Don’t go!” whispered Capitan Tiago. “Maria Clara will be here. Isabel has
gone to get her. The new curate of your town, who is a saint, is also
coming.”

“I’ll call tomorrow before starting. I’ve a very important visit to make
now.” With this he went away.

Meanwhile the Franciscan had recovered himself. “Do you see?” he said to
the rubicund youth, at the same time flourishing his dessert spoon. “That
comes from pride. They can’t stand to have the curate correct them. They
even think that they are respectable persons. It’s the evil result of sending
young men to Europe. The government ought to prohibit it.”

“And how about the lieutenant?” Doña Victorina chimed in upon the
Franciscan, “he didn’t get the frown off his face the whole evening. He did
well to leave us so old and still only a lieutenant!” The lady could not forget
the allusion to her frizzes and the trampled ruffles of her gown.

That night the rubicund youth wrote down, among other things, the
following title for a chapter in his Colonial Studies: “Concerning the
manner in which the neck and wing of a chicken in a friar’s plate of soup
may disturb the merriment of a feast.” Among his notes there appeared
these observations: “In the Philippines the most unnecessary person at a
dinner is he who gives it, for they are quite capable of beginning by
throwing the host into the street and then everything will go on smoothly.
Under present conditions it would perhaps be a good thing not to allow the
Filipinos to leave the country, and even not to teach them to read.”

1 “He says that he doesn’t want it when it is exactly what he does want.” An expression used in the
mongrel Spanish-Tagalog ‘market language’ of Manila and Cavite, especially among the children,—
somewhat akin to the English ‘sour grapes.’—TR.
2 Arms should yield to the toga (military to civil power). Arms should yield to the surplice (military
to religious power),—TR.

3 For Peninsula, i.e., Spain. The change of n to ñ was common among ignorant Filipinos.—TR.

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