Read Ebook: Natural Bridges National Monument (1954) by United States National Park Service

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Ebook has 908 lines and 32768 words, and 19 pages

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."

"I, for example," continued Brother D?maso, 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."

"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 f?tes, 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.

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

"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 D?maso; "I'll loan you my carriage."

The Dominican interposed.

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 D?maso; "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 D?maso.

"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.

CRIS?STOMO 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 Cris?stomo 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 D?maso 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 D?maso!"

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?"

Cris?stomo 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."

"Dinner is served," announced a waiter of the Caf? 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 D?maso."

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