Eagle Flight A Filipino Novel Adapted from Noli Me Tangere

Rizal, Jose

• Publisher: pubOne.info
• Year: 2010
• eBook ISBN: 9782819906285
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Classics
• Index: Literature

In that horrible drama, the Philippine revolution, one man of the purest and noblest character stands out pre-eminently - Jose Rizal - poet, artist, philologue, novelist, above all, patriot; his influence might have changed the whole course of events in the islands, had not a blind and stupid policy brought about the crime of his death.

LII.

  MARIA CLARA MARRIES.

  Captain Tiago was very happy. During these troublous times, no one had paid any attention to him. He had not been arrested, he had not been subjected to cross-examination, to electrical machines, to repeated foot-baths in subterranean habitations, nor to any other of these pleasantries, well known to certain people who call themselves civilized. His friends, that is to say, those who had been – for he had repudiated his Filipino friends as soon as they had become suspects in the eyes of the Government – had returned home after several days of vacation in the edifices of the State. The captain-general had ordered them out of his possessions, to the great displeasure of the one-armed man, who would have liked to celebrate the approaching Christmas in so numerous a company of the rich.

  Captain Tinong returned to his home, ill, pale, another man. The excursion had not been for his good. He said nothing, not even to greet his family, who laughed and wept over him, mad with joy. The poor man no longer left the house, for fear of saluting a filibuster. Cousin Primitivo himself, with all the wisdom of the ancients, could not draw him out of his mutism.

  Stories like that of Captain Tinong's were numerous, and Captain Tiago was not ignorant of them. He overflowed with gratitude, without knowing exactly to whom he owed these signal favors. Aunt Isabel attributed the miracle to the Virgin of Antipolo. "I too, Isabel," said Captain Tiago, "but the Virgin of Antipolo has probably not done it alone; my friends have helped, and my future son-in-law, Señor Linares."

  It was whispered that Ibarra would be hung; that in spite of lack of proofs of his guilt, one thing had been found that confirmed the accusation; the experts had declared the school was so designed that it might pass for a rampart, faulty enough, to be sure, but what one might expect of ignorant Indians.

  In the midst of affairs, Doña Victorina, Don Tiburcio, and Linares arrived. As usual, Doña Victorina talked for the three men and herself; and her speech had undergone a remarkable change. She now claimed to have naturalized herself an Andalusian by suppressing d's and replacing the sound of s by that of z. No one had been able to get the idea out of her head; one would certainly have needed to get her frizzes off the outside first. She talked of visits of Linares to the captain-general, and made continual insinuations as to advantages a relative of position would bring. "As we say," she concluded, "he who sleeps in a good shade, leans on a good staff." "It's – it's the opposite, wife."

  Maria Clara was yet pale, though she had almost recovered from her illness. She kissed Doña Victorina, smiling rather sadly. "You have been saved, thanks to your connections!" said the doctora, with a significant look toward Linares. "God has protected my father," said Maria, in a low voice. "Yes, Clarita, but the time of miracles is past. We, the Spaniards say, trust not in the Virgin, and save yourself by running." "It's – it's – the contrary, wife!" "We must talk business," said Doña Victorina, glancing at Maria. Maria found a pretext for leaving, and went out, steadying herself by the furniture.

  What was said in this conference was so sordid and mean, that we prefer not to report it. Suffice it to say that when they parted, they were all satisfied. Captain Tiago said a little after to Aunt Isabel: "Have the caterer notified that we give a reception to-morrow. Maria must get ready for her marriage at once. When Señor Linares is our son-in-law, all the palaces will be open to us; and every one will die of envy."

  And so, toward eight o'clock the next evening, the house of Captain Tiago was once more full. This time, however, he had invited only Spaniards, peninsular and Philippine, and Chinese. Yet many of our acquaintances were there. Father Sibyla and Father Salvi, among numerous Franciscans and Dominicans; the old lieutenant of the Municipal Guard, more sombre than ever; the alférez, recounting his victory for the thousandth time, looking over the heads of everybody, now that he is lieutenant with grade of commandant; Dr. Espadaña, who looks upon him with respect and fear, and avoids his glance; Doña Victorina, who cannot see him without anger. Linares had not yet arrived; as a person of importance, he must arouse expectation. There are beings so simple, that an hour's waiting for a man suffices to make him great in their eyes.

  Maria Clara was the object of interest to all the women, and the subject of unveiled comments. She had received these ceremoniously, without losing her air of sadness. "Bah! the proud little thing!" said one. "Rather pretty," said another, "but he might have chosen some one with a more intelligent face." "But the money, my dear! The good fellow is selling himself."

  In another group some one was saying: "To marry when one's first fiancé is going to be hung!" "That is what is called prudent; having a substitute at hand." "Then, when one becomes a widow – – "

  Possibly some of these remarks reached the ears of Maria Clara. She grew paler, her hand trembled, her lips seemed to move.

  In the circles of men the talk was loud, and naturally the recent events were the subject of conversation. Everybody talked, even Don Tiburcio. "I hear that your reverence is about to leave the pueblo," said the new lieutenant, whom his new star had made more amiable. "I have no more to do there; I am to be placed permanently at Manila. And you?" asked Father Salvi. "I also leave the pueblo," said he, throwing back his shoulders; "I am going with a flying column to rid the province of filibusters."

  Father Salvi surveyed his old enemy from top to toe, and turned away with a disdainful smile. "Is it known certainly what is to be done with the chief filibuster?" asked a clerk. "You are speaking of Don Crisóstomo Ibarra," replied another. "It is very probable that he will be hung, like those of 1872, and it will be very just." "He is to be exiled," said the old lieutenant dryly. "Exile! Nothing but exile?" cried numerous voices at once. "Then it must be for life!" "If the young man had been more prudent," went on Lieutenant Guevara, speaking so that all might hear, "if he had confided less in certain persons to whom he wrote, if our attorney-generals did not interpret too subtly what they read, it is certain he would have been released."

  This declaration of the old lieutenant's, and the tone of his voice, produced a great surprise among his auditors. No one knew what to say. Father Salvi looked away, perhaps to avoid the dark look the lieutenant gave him. Maria Clara dropped some flowers she had in her hand, and became a statue. Father Sibyla, who knew when to be silent, seemed the only one who knew how to question. "You speak of letters, Señor Guevara." "I speak of what I am told by Don Crisóstomo's advocate, who is greatly interested in his case, and defended him with zeal. Outside of a few ambiguous lines in a letter addressed to a woman before he left for Europe, in which the procurator found a project against the Government, and which the young man acknowledged as his, there was no evidence against him." "And the declaration made by the tulisan before he died?" "The defence destroyed that testimony. According to the witness himself, none of them had any communication with Ibarra, except one named José, who was his enemy, as was proven, and who afterward committed suicide, probably from remorse. It was shown that the papers found on his body were forgeries, for the writing was like Ibarra's seven years ago, but not like his hand of to-day. For this it was supposed that the accusing letter served as a model." "You tell us," said a Franciscan, "that Ibarra addressed this letter to a woman. How did it come into the hands of the attorney-general?"

  The lieutenant did not reply. He looked a moment at Father Salvi, and moved off, twisting the point of his gray beard. The others continued to discuss the matter. "Even women seem to have hated him," said one. "He burned his house, thinking to save himself, but he counted without his hostess!" said another, laughing.

  Meanwhile the old soldier approached Maria Clara. She had heard the whole conversation, sitting motionless, the flowers lying at her feet. "You are a prudent young woman," he said in a low voice; "by giving over the letter, you assured yourself a peaceful future." And he moved on, leaving Maria with blank eyes and a face rigid. Fortunately Aunt Isabel passed. Maria had strength to take her by the dress. "What is the matter?" cried the old lady, terrified at the face of her niece. "You are ill, my child. You are ready to faint. What is it?" "My heart – it's the crowd – so much light – I must rest. Tell my father I've gone to rest," and steadying herself by her aunt's arm, she went to her room. "You are cold! Do you want some tea?" asked Aunt Isabel at the door.

  Maria shook her head. "Go back, dear aunt, I only need to rest," she said. She locked the door of her little room, and at the end of her strength, threw herself down before a statue, sobbing: "Mother, mother, my mother!"

  The moonlight came in through the window, and through the door leading to the balcony. The joyous music of the dance, peals of laughter and the hum of conversation, made their way to the chamber. Many times they knocked at her door – her father, her aunt, Doña Victorina, even Linares. Maria did not move or speak; now and then a hoarse sob escaped her.

  Hours passed. After the feast had come the ball. Maria's candle had burned out, and she lay in the moonlight at the foot of the statue. She had not moved. Little by little the house became quiet. Aunt Isabel came to knock once again at the door. "She must have gone to bed," the old lady called back to her brother. "At her age one sleeps like the dead."

  When all was still again, Maria rose slowly, and looked out on the terrace with its vines bathed in the white moonlight. "A peaceful future! – Sleep like the dead!" she said aloud; and she went out.

  The city was mute; only now and then a carriage could be heard crossing the wooden bridge. The girl raised her eyes toward the sky; then slowly she took off her rings, the pendants in her ears, the comb and jewelled pins in her hair, and put them on the balustrade of the terrace; then she looked toward the river.

  A little bark, loaded with zacate, drew up to the landing-place below the terrace. One of the two men in it climbed the stone steps, sprang over the wall, and in a moment was mounting the stairway of the terrace. At sight of Maria, he stopped, then approached slowly.

  Maria drew back. "Crisóstomo!" she said, speaking low. She was terrified. "Yes, I am Crisóstomo," replied the young man gravely. "An enemy, a man who has reason to hate me, Elias, has rescued me from the prison where my friends put me."

  A sad silence followed his words. Maria Clara bent her head. Ibarra went on: "By the dead body of my mother, I pledged myself, whatever my future, to try to make you happy. I have risked all that remains to me, to come and fulfil that promise. Chance lets me speak to you, Maria; we shall never see each other again. You are young now; some day your conscience may upbraid you. Before I go away forever, I have come to say that I forgive you. Be happy – farewell!" And he began to move away; she held him back. "Crisóstomo!" she said, "God has sent you to save me from despair. Listen and judge me!"

  Ibarra tried gently to release himself. "I did not come to call you to account; I came to bring you peace." "I want none of the peace you bring me. I shall find peace for myself. You scorn me and your scorn will make even death bitter."

  He saw despair in her poor, young face, and asked what she wished. "I wish you to believe that I have always loved you."

  He smiled bitterly. "Ah! you doubt me! you doubt your childhood's friend, who has never hidden a single thought from you! When you know my history, the sad story that was told me in my illness, you will pity me; you will no longer wear that smile. Why did they not let me die in the hands of my ignorant doctor! You and I should both have been happier!"

  She stopped a moment, then went on: "You force me to this, by your doubts; may my mother forgive me! In one of the most painful of my nights of suffering, a man revealed to me the name of my real father. If he had not been my father, this man said, he might have pardoned the injury you had done him."

  Crisóstomo looked at Maria in amazement. "What was I to do?" she went on. "Ought I to sacrifice to my love the memory of my mother, the honor of him who was supposed to be my father, and the good name of him who is? And could I have done this without bringing dishonor upon you too?" "But the proof – have you had proof? There must be proof!" said Crisóstomo, staggered.

  Maria drew from her breast two papers. "Here are two letters of my mother's," she said, "written in her remorse. Take them! Read them! My father left them in the house where he lived so many years. This man found them and kept them, and only gave them up to me in exchange for your letter, as assurance, he said, that I would not marry you without my father's consent. I sacrificed my love! Who would not for a mother dead and two fathers living? Could I foresee what use they would make of your letter? Could I know I was sacrificing you too?"

  Ibarra was speechless. Maria went on: "What remained for me to do? Could I tell you who my father was? Could I bid you ask his pardon, when he had so made your father suffer? Could I say to my father, who perhaps would have pardoned you – could I say I was his daughter? Nothing remained but to suffer, to guard my secret, and die suffering! Now, my friend, now that you know the sad story of your poor Maria, have you still for her that disdainful smile?" "Maria, you are a saint!" "I am blessed, because you believe in me – – " "And yet," said Crisóstomo, remembering, "I heard you were to marry – – " "Yes," sobbed the poor child, "my father demands this sacrifice; he has loved me, nourished me, and it did not belong to him to do it. I shall pay him my debt of gratitude by assuring him peace through this new connection, but – – " "But?" "I shall not forget my vows to you." "What is your thought?" asked Ibarra, trying to read in her clear eyes. "The future is obscure. I do not know what I shall do; but I know this, that I can love but once, and that I shall not belong to one I do not love. And you? What will you do?" "I am no longer anything but a fugitive – I shall fly, and my flight will soon be overtaken, Maria – – "

  Maria took his head in her hands, kissed his lips again and again, then pushed him away with all her strength. "Fly, fly!" she said. "Adieu!"

  Ibarra looked at her with shining eyes, but she made a sign, and he went, reeling for an instant like a drunken man. He leaped the wall again, and was back in the little bark. Maria Clara, leaning on the balustrade, watched till it disappeared in the distance.

LIII.

THE CHASE ON THE LAKE. "Listen, señor, to the plan I have made," said Elias, as he pulled toward San Gabriel. "I will hide you, for the present, at the house of a friend of mine at Mandaluyong. I will bring you there your gold, that I hid in the tomb of your great-grandfather. You will leave the country – – " "To live among strangers?" interrupted Ibarra. "To live in peace. You have friends in Spain; you may get amnesty."

Crisóstomo did not reply; he reflected in silence.

They arrived at the Pasig, and the little bark began to go up stream. On the bridge was a horseman, hastening his course, and a whistle long and shrill was heard. "Elias," said Ibarra at length, "your misfortunes are due to my family, and you have twice saved my life. I owe you both gratitude and restitution of property. You advise me to leave the country; well, come with me. We will live as brothers."

Elias shook his head. "It is true that I can never be happy in my country, but I can live and die there, perhaps die for my country. That is always something. But you can do nothing for her, here and now. Perhaps some day – – " "Unless I, too, should become a tulisan," mused Ibarra. "Señor, a month ago we sat in this same boat, under the light of this same moon. You could not have said such a thing then." "No, Elias. Man seems to be an animal who varies with circumstances. I was blind then, unreasonable, I know not what. Now the bandage has been torn from my eyes; the wretchedness and solitude of my prison has taught me better. I see the cancer that is eating into our society; perhaps, after all, it must be torn out by violence."

They came in sight of the governor-general's palace, and thought they saw unusual movement among the guards. "Your escape must have been discovered," said Elias. "Lie down, señor, so I can cover you with the zacate, for the sentinel at the magazine may stop us."

As Elias had anticipated, the sentinel challenged him, and asked him where he came from. "From Manila, with zacate for the iodores and curates," said he, imitating the accent of the people of Pandakan.

A sergeant came out. "Sulung," said he to Elias, "I warn you not to take any one into your boat. A prisoner has just escaped. If you capture him and bring him to me, I will give you a fine reward." "Good, señor; what is his description?" "He wears a long coat, and speaks Spanish. Look out for him!"

The bark moved off. Elias turned and saw the sentinel still standing by the bank. "We shall lose a few minutes," he said; "we shall have to go into the rio Beata, to make him think I'm from Peña Francia. You shall see the rio of which Francisco Baltazar sang."

The pueblo was asleep in the moonlight. Crisóstomo sat up to admire the death-like peace of nature. The rio was narrow, and its banks were plains strewn with zacate. Elias discharged his cargo, and from the grass where they were hidden, drew some of those sacks of palm leaves that are called bayones. Then they pushed off again, and soon were back on the Pasig. From time to time they talked of indifferent things. "Santa Ana!" said Ibarra, speaking low; "do you know that building?" They were passing the country house of the Jesuits. "I've spent many happy days there," said Elias. "When I was a child, we came here every month. Then I was like other people; had a family, a fortune; dreamed, thought I saw a future."

They were silent until they came to Malapad-na-batô. Those who have sometimes cut a wake in the Pasig, on one of these magnificent nights of the Philippines, when from the limpid azure the moon pours out a poetic melancholy, when shadows hide the miseries of men and silence puts out their sordid words – those who have done this will know some of the thoughts of these two young men.

At Ma...

Table of contents

• INTRODUCTION
• TO MY COUNTRY
• I.
• II.
• III.
• IV.
• V.
• VI.
• VII.
• VIII.
• IX.
• X.
• XI.
• XII.
• XIII.
• XIV.
• XV.
• XVI.
• XVII.
• XVIII.
• XIX.
• XX.
• XXI.
• XXII.
• XXIII.
• XXIV.
• XXV.
• XXVI.
• XXVII.
• XXVIII.
• XXIX.
• XXX.
• XXXI.
• XXXII.
• XXXIII.
• XXXIV.
• XXXV.
• XXXVI.
• XXXVII.
• XXXVIII.
• XXXIX.
• XL.
• XLI.
• XLII.
• XLIII.
• IL BUON DI SI CONOSCE DA MATTINA.
• XLIV.
• XLV.
• XLVI.
• XLVII.
• XLVIII.
• XLIX.
• L.
• LI.
• LII.
• LIII.
• LIV.
• LV.
• Copyright