Friars and Filipinos Part 7

"Who is the head priest?" asked Ibarra.

"Who? The one who does the whipping."

Ibarra put his hand to his head.

"But you can at least tell us where the grave is? You ought to remember."

The grave-digger smiled. "The body is no longer there," he replied tranquilly.

"What do you say?"

"Yes, no longer," the man added in a joking tone. "Only a week ago I buried a woman in its place."

"Are you crazy?" the servant asked. "Why, it is not yet a year since we buried him."

"Then that is the one, for it was many months ago that I took up the body. The head priest of the parish ordered me to do it, in order to bury it in the Chinese cemetery. But as it was heavy and it was raining that night----"

The man could not finish. He stepped back, half frightened at the expression on Crisostomo's face. Ibarra made a rush at him, and, grabbing him by the arm, shook him.

"And what did you do?" the young man asked, in an indescribable tone.

"Honored sir, do not get angry," he replied, pale and trembling. "I did not bury the body among the Chinese. In my opinion a person might better be a suicide than be buried among the Chinese. I threw the body into the lake."

Ibarra laid both his hands on the man's shoulders and looked at him for a long time in a terrifying manner. "You are only an unfortunate fellow," he said, at last, and left the place on a run across bones, graves, and crosses, like a madman.

The grave-digger felt of his arm and murmured: "What would they do with the dead! The head priest whips me with his cane for having left the body in the cemetery when I was sick. Now this fellow comes along and nearly breaks my arm for having taken it up. That is just like the Spaniards! I'll lose my place yet."

Ibarra went on in great haste, keeping his eyes fixed in the distance. The old servant followed him, crying. Already the sun was hidden; a large, dark cloud hung over the western horizon; and a dry wind bent the tops of the trees and made the fields of sugar cane groan. With hat in hand, he went on. Not one tear dropped from his eye, not one sigh came from his breast. He hurried on as if he were fleeing from somebody, or something--perhaps the shade of his father, perhaps the tempest which was approaching. He hurried through the town and headed toward the outlying country, toward that old house which he had not entered for so many years. The house was surrounded by a wall, near which many cacti grew, and as he approached they seemed to signal to him. The windows seemed to open, the ilang-ilang joyfully waved its branches, and the doves fluttered about the little tower on the peak of their garden house.

But the young man did not notice these signs of welcome on his return to his old home. His eyes were riveted on the form of a priest who was advancing from the opposite direction. It was the priest of San Diego, that meditative Franciscan, the enemy of the alferez whom we have mentioned. The wind was playing with the wide wings of his hat, and the robe of guingon was flattened out, moulded by the wind to the outline of his form, marking his slender thighs and bow-legs. In his right hand he carried a cane. It was the first time that he and Ibarra had met.

As they approached each other, the young man stopped and looked at him fixedly. Father Salvi avoided the look and was somewhat distracted. This vacillation lasted only a moment. Ibarra made a rush toward him, and stopped the priest from falling only by grasping his shoulder. Then, in a voice scarcely intelligible, he exclaimed:

"What have you done with my father?"

Friar Salvi, pale and trembling, as he read the unmistakable sentiments which were depicted on the young man's face, could not reply.

"What have you done with my father?" he asked again, his voice almost choking him.

The priest, shrinking from the tight grasp of Ibarra's hand, at last made a great effort and said: "You are mistaken. I have done nothing with your father."

"What? No?" continued the young man, the weight of his hand on the priest's shoulder almost making him kneel.

"No, I a.s.sure you. It was my predecessor. It was Father Damaso----"

"Ah!" exclaimed the young man, throwing the priest down and giving him a slap in the face. And leaving Father Salvi, he turned quickly and went toward the house.

CHAPTER IX

ADVENTURES OF A SCHOOL TEACHER.

Laguna de Bay, surrounded by mountains, sleeps tranquilly in the stillness of the elements, as if it had not joined the chorus of the tempest on the night before. As first rays of dawn appear in the eastern sky and awaken the phosph.o.r.escent myriads in the water, long, grey shadows appear in the dim distance, almost on the border of the horizon. They are shadows of fishermen's boats at work drawing in the nets.

Two men, dressed in deep mourning, from a lofty height contemplate the scene in silence. One is Ibarra, and the other is a young, meek-looking man with a melancholy countenance.

"Here is the place!" said the latter. "Here is where your father's body was thrown into the water! The grave-digger brought Lieutenant Guevara and me here and pointed out the spot."

Ibarra, with emotion, warmly grasped the young man's hand.

"You need not thank me!" replied the latter. "I owed your father for many favors he did me. The only thing I could ever do for him was to accompany his body to the grave. I had come to the town without knowing anybody, without any recommendations, without a reputation, without money, just as I am now. Your father protected me, procured a house for me, helped secure whatever was needed to advance education; he used to come to the school and distribute pennies among the poor and diligent pupils; he provided them with books and papers. But that, like all good things, did not last long."

Ibarra took off his hat and seemed to pray for a short time. Then he turned to his companion and said: "Did you tell me that my father used to help the poor children? How is it now?"

"Oh, now they do the best they can."

"And don't they come to school regularly?"

"No, for their s.h.i.+rts are ragged and they are ashamed."

Ibarra kept silent for a few moments.

"How many pupils have you now?" he asked, with a certain interest.

"There are more than two hundred on the register, but only twenty-five in the cla.s.s."

"How does that happen?"

The school teacher sadly smiled.

"It is a long and tedious story," said he.

"Don't think that I am asking out of vain curiosity," replied Ibarra, looking seriously at the distant horizon. "I have been meditating a great deal on the matter, and I believe that it is far better to try to carry out the ideas of my father than to try to avenge him. His tomb is sacred Nature; and his enemies were the people and the priest. I can forgive the people for their ignorance, and as to the priest, I will pardon his character because I wish to respect the religion which he represents. I wish to be inspired with the spirit of the one who gave me life, and, that I may lend my help, I wish to know what are the obstacles here in the way of education."

"The country will bless your memory, Senor, if you can carry out the beautiful and n.o.ble ideas of your dead father," said the school teacher. "You wish to know what the obstacles are? Very well. We are now in such circ.u.mstances that unless something powerful intervenes, there will never be any education here. First, because there is no incentive or stimulus to the children, and, secondly, even when there is an incentive, lack of means and many prejudices kill it. They say that the son of a German peasant studies eight years in the town school. Who would want to spend half of that time in our schools, when the benefits to be derived are so small? Here the children read, and commit to memory verses and at times entire books in Spanish, but all without understanding a single word. What good can the sons of our farmers get out of the school so long as this is the case?"

"And you see the evil; have you not thought out a remedy?"

"Ah, poor me!" replied the teacher, shaking his head, "a poor teacher cannot alone fight against prejudices, against existing influences. Above all, I would need to have a school house, so that I would not, as I do now, have to teach from the priest's carriage, under the convent. There, when the children want to read aloud, they naturally disturb the Father, who at times comes down and very nervous, especially when he has his attacks, finds fault with the children and insults me. You know very well that under such conditions no one can do any teaching. The child does not respect the teacher from that moment when he sees him mistreated by some one else without maintaining his rights. The teacher, if he is to be listened to, or if his authority is not to be doubted, needs prestige, a good name, moral strength, and a certain amount of freedom. If you will allow me, I will give you an ill.u.s.tration. I wished to introduce some reforms and they laughed at me. In order to remedy the evil that I spoke of a moment ago, I tried to teach the children Spanish, because, not only does the Government order it, but because it will be a great advantage for them to know the language. I employed the simplest method, used simple phrases and nouns without making use of hard rules, with the expectation of teaching them the grammar as soon as they had learned the language. At the end of several weeks, almost all the smarter ones in the school understood me and were able to compose phrases in Castellano."

The teacher stopped and seemed to be in doubt. Then, as if he had made up his mind, he began again.

"I ought not to be ashamed of the history of my grievances. If any one had been in my place, he would have had the same story to tell. As I was saying, I began well. Several days later the priest, who was then Father Damaso, sent the sacristan mayor to tell me that he wanted to see me. As I knew his character and was afraid to make him wait for me, I went up immediately, saluted him and said good morning to him in Spanish. As was customary, when I saluted him, I advanced to kiss the hand which he held out, but just at that moment he withdrew it and, without replying to me, began to chuckle scoffingly. I was naturally disconcerted, and it was all done in the presence of the sacristan mayor. At the moment, I did not know what to say. I stood and looked at him while he went on laughing. I had already become impatient and saw that I was on the point of committing an indiscretion. All of a sudden, he stopped laughing and added insult to injury. With a cunning air, he said to me: 'So it is buenos dias, eh? buenos dias, ha, ha! How funny! Why, you know how to speak Spanish, do you?' And then he continued his laugh."