CHAPTER VII
An Idyl on an Azotea
The Song of Songs, which is Solomon's.
That morning Aunt Isabel and Maria Clara went early to mass,the latter elegantly dressed and wearing a rosary of blue beads,which partly served as a bracelet for her, and the former with herspectacles in order to read her _Anchor of Salvation_ during the holycommunion. Scarcely had the priest disappeared from the altar when themaiden expressed a desire for returning home, to the great surprise anddispleasure of her good aunt, who believed her niece to be as piousand devoted to praying as a nun, at least. Grumbling and crossingherself, the good old lady rose. "The good Lord will forgive me, AuntIsabel, since He must know the hearts of girls better than you do,"Maria Clara might have said to check the severe yet maternal chidings.
After they had breakfasted, Maria Clara consumed her impatience inworking at a silk purse while her aunt was trying to clean up thetraces of the former night's revelry by swinging a feather dusterabout. Capitan Tiago was busy looking over some papers. Every noise inthe street, every carriage that passed, caused the maiden to trembleand quickened the beatings of her heart. Now she wished that she wereback in the quiet convent among her friends; there she could have seenhim without emotion and agitation! But was he not the companion of herinfancy, had they not played together and even quarreled at times? Thereason for all this I need not explain; if you, O reader, have everloved, you will understand; and if you have not, it is useless forme to tell you, as the uninitiated do not comprehend these mysteries.
"I believe, Maria, that the doctor is right," said Capitan Tiago. "Youought to go into the country, for you are pale and need fresh air. Whatdo you think of Malabon or San Diego?" At the mention of the latterplace Maria Clara blushed like a poppy and was unable to answer.
"You and Isabel can go at once to the convent to get your clothesand to say good-by to your friends," he continued, without raisinghis head. "You will not stay there any longer."
The girl felt the vague sadness that possesses the mind when we leaveforever a place where we have been happy, but another thought softenedthis sorrow.
"In four or five days, after you get some new clothes made, we'llgo to Malabon. Your godfather is no longer in San Diego. The priestthat you may have noticed here last night, that young padre, is thenew curate whom we have there, and he is a saint."
"I think that San Diego would be better, cousin," observed AuntIsabel. "Besides, our house there is better and the time for thefiesta draws near."
Maria Clara wanted to embrace her aunt for this speech, but hearinga carriage stop, she turned pale.
"Ah, very true," answered Capitan Tiago, and then in a different tonehe exclaimed, "Don Crisostomo!"
The maiden let her sewing fall from her hands and wished to move butcould not--a violent tremor ran through her body. Steps were heardon the stairway and then a fresh, manly voice. As if that voice hadsome magic power, the maiden controlled her emotion and ran to hidein the oratory among the saints. The two cousins laughed, and Ibarraeven heard the noise of the door closing. Pale and breathing rapidly,the maiden pressed her beating heart and tried to listen. She heardhis voice, that beloved voice that for so long a time she had heardonly in her dreams he was asking for her! Overcome with joy, shekissed the nearest saint, which happened to be St. Anthony the Abbot,a saint happy in flesh and in wood, ever the object of pleasingtemptations! Afterwards she sought the keyhole in order to see andexamine him. She smiled, and when her aunt snatched her from thatposition she unconsciously threw her arms around the old lady's neckand rained kisses upon her.
"Foolish child, what's the matter with you?" the old lady was at lastable to say as she wiped a tear from her faded eyes. Maria Clara feltashamed and covered her eyes with her plump arm.
"Come on, get ready, come!" added the old aunt fondly. "While he istalking to your father about you. Come, don't make him wait." Likea child the maiden obediently followed her and they shut themselvesup in her chamber.
Capitan Tiago and Ibarra were conversing in a lively manner when AuntIsabel appeared half dragging her niece, who was looking in everydirection except toward the persons in the room.
What said those two souls communicating through the language of theeyes, more perfect than that of the lips, the language given to thesoul in order that sound may not mar the ecstasy of feeling? In suchmoments, when the thoughts of two happy beings penetrate into eachother's souls through the eyes, the spoken word is halting, rude, andweak--it is as the harsh, slow roar of the thunder compared with therapidity of the dazzling lightning flash, expressing feelings alreadyrecognized, ideas already understood, and if words are made use ofit is only because the heart's desire, dominating all the being andflooding it with happiness, wills that the whole human organism withall its physical and psychical powers give expression to the song ofjoy that rolls through the soul. To the questioning glance of love,as it flashes out and then conceals itself, speech has no reply;the smile, the kiss, the sigh answer.
Soon the two lovers, fleeing from the dust raised by Aunt Isabel'sbroom, found themselves on the azotea where they could commune inliberty among the little arbors. What did they tell each other inmurmurs that you nod your heads, O little red cypress flowers? Tellit, you who have fragrance in your breath and color on your lips. Andthou, O zephyr, who learnest rare harmonies in the stillness of thedark night amid the hidden depths of our virgin forests! Tell it,O sunbeams, brilliant manifestation upon earth of the Eternal, soleimmaterial essence in a material world, you tell it, for I only knowhow to relate prosaic commonplaces. But since you seem unwilling todo so, I am going to try myself.
The sky was blue and a fresh breeze, not yet laden with the fragranceof roses, stirred the leaves and flowers of the vines; that is whythe cypresses, the orchids, the dried fishes, and the Chinese lanternswere trembling. The splash of paddles in the muddy waters of the riverand the rattle of carriages and carts passing over the Binondo bridgecame up to them distinctly, although they did not hear what the oldaunt murmured as she saw where they were: "That's better, there you'llbe watched by the whole neighborhood." At first they talked nonsense,giving utterance only to those sweet inanities which are so much likethe boastings of the nations of Europe--pleasing and honey-sweet athome, but causing foreigners to laugh or frown.
She, like a sister of Cain, was of course jealous and asked hersweetheart, "Have you always thought of me? Have you never forgotten meon all your travels in the great cities among so many beautiful women?"
He, too, was a brother of Cain, and sought to evade such questions,making use of a little fiction. "Could I forget you?" he answeredas he gazed enraptured into her dark eyes. "Could I be faithlessto my oath, my sacred oath? Do you remember that stormy night whenyou saw me weeping alone by the side of my dead mother and, drawingnear to me, you put your hand on my shoulder, that hand which for solong a time you had not allowed me to touch, saying to me, 'You havelost your mother while I never had one,' and you wept with me? Youloved her and she looked upon you as a daughter. Outside it rainedand the lightning flashed, but within I seemed to hear music and tosee a smile on the pallid face of the dead. Oh, that my parents werealive and might behold you now! I then caught your hand along withthe hand of my mother and swore to love you and to make you happy,whatever fortune Heaven might have in store for me; and that oath,which has never weighed upon me as a burden, I now renew!
"Could I forget you? The thought of you has ever been with me,strengthening me amid the dangers of travel, and has been a comfortto my soul's loneliness in foreign lands. The thoughts of youhave neutralized the lotus-effect of Europe, which erases from thememories of so many of our countrymen the hopes and misfortunes of ourfatherland. In dreams I saw you standing on the shore at Manila, gazingat the far horizon wrapped in the warm light of the early dawn. I heardthe slow, sad song that awoke in me sleeping affections and calledback to the memory of my heart the first years of our childhood, ourjoys, our pleasures, and all that happy past which y
ou gave life towhile you were in our town. It seemed to me that you were the fairy,the spirit, the poetic incarnation of my fatherland, beautiful,unaffected, lovable, frank, a true daughter of the Philippines,that beautiful land which unites with the imposing virtues of themother country, Spain, the admirable qualities of a young people,as you unite in your being all that is beautiful and lovely, theinheritance of both races" so indeed the love of you and that of myfatherland have become fused into one.
"Could I forget you? Many times have I thought that I heard thesound of your piano and the accents of your voice. When in Germany,as I wandered at twilight in the woods, peopled with the fantasticcreations of its poets and the mysterious legends of past generations,always I called upon your name, imagining that I saw you in the miststhat rose from the depths of the valley, or I fancied that I heardyour voice in the rustling of the leaves. When from afar I heard thesongs of the peasants as they returned from their labors, it seemed tome that their tones harmonized with my inner voices, that they weresinging for _you_, and thus they lent reality to my illusions anddreams. At times I became lost among the mountain paths and while thenight descended slowly, as it does there, I would find myself stillwandering, seeking my way among the pines and beeches and oaks. Thenwhen some scattering rays of moonlight slipped down into the clearspaces left in the dense foliage, I seemed to see you in the heart ofthe forest as a dim, loving shade wavering about between the spots oflight and shadow. If perhaps the nightingale poured forth his variedtrills, I fancied it was because he saw you and was inspired by you.
"Have I thought of you? The fever of love not only gave warmth to thesnows but colored the ice! The beautiful skies of Italy with theirclear depths reminded me of your eyes, its sunny landscape spoke tome of your smile; the plains of Andalusia with their scent-ladenairs, peopled with oriental memories, full of romance and color,told me of your love! On dreamy, moonlit nights, while boating oilthe Rhine, I have asked myself if my fancy did not deceive me as Isaw you among the poplars on the banks, on the rocks of the Lorelei,or in the midst of the waters, singing in the silence of the nightas if you were a comforting fairy maiden sent to enliven the solitudeand sadness of those ruined castles!"
"I have not traveled like you, so I know only your town and Manila andAntipolo," she answered with a smile which showed that she believedall he said. "But since I said good-by to you and entered the convent,I have always thought of you and have only put you out of my mindwhen ordered to do so by my confessor, who imposed many penances uponme. I recalled our games and our quarrels when we were children. Youused to pick up the most beautiful shells and search in the riverfor the roundest and smoothest pebbles of different colors that wemight play games with them. You were very stupid and always lost,and by way of a forfeit I would slap you with the palm of my hand,but I always tried not to strike you hard, for I had pity on you. Inthose games you cheated much, even more than I did, and we used tofinish our play in a quarrel. Do you remember that time when youbecame really angry at me? Then you made me suffer, but afterwards,when I thought of it in the convent, I smiled and longed for you sothat we might quarrel again--so that we might once more make up. Wewere still children and had gone with your mother to bathe in the brookunder the shade of the thick bamboo. On the banks grew many flowersand plants whose strange names you told me in Latin and Spanish, foryou were even then studying in the Ateneo. [44] I paid no attention,but amused myself by running after the needle-like dragon-flies andthe butterflies with their rainbow colors and tints of mother-of-pearlas they swarmed about among the flowers. Sometimes I tried to surprisethem with my hands or to catch the little fishes that slipped rapidlyabout amongst the moss and stones in the edge of the water. Once youdisappeared suddenly and when you returned you brought a crown ofleaves and orange blossoms, which you placed upon my head, calling meChloe. For yourself you made one of vines. But your mother snatchedaway my crown, and after mashing it with a stone mixed it with the_gogo_ with which she was going to wash our heads. The tears came intoyour eyes and you said that she did not understand mythology. 'Sillyboy,' your mother exclaimed, 'you'll see how sweet your hair willsmell afterwards.' I laughed, but you were offended and would not talkwith me, and for the rest of the day appeared so serious that thenI wanted to cry. On our way back to the town through the hot sun,I picked some sage leaves that grew beside the path and gave themto you to put in your hat so that you might not get a headache. Yousmiled and caught my hand, and we made up."
Ibarra smiled with happiness as he opened his pocketbook and took fromit a piece of paper in which were wrapped some dry, blackened leaveswhich gave off a sweet odor. "Your sage leaves," he said, in answerto her inquiring look. "This is all that you have ever given me."
She in turn snatched from her bosom a little pouch of whitesatin. "You must not touch this," she said, tapping the palm of hishand lightly. "It's a letter of farewell."
"The one I wrote to you before leaving?"
"Have you ever written me any other, sir?"
"And what did I say to you then?"
"Many fibs, excuses of a delinquent debtor," she answered smilingly,thus giving him to understand how sweet to her those fibs were. "Bequiet now and I'll read it to you. I'll leave out your fine phrasesin order not to make a martyr of you."
Raising the paper to the height of her eyes so that the youth mightnot see her face, she began: "'_My_'--but I'll not read what followsthat because it's not true."
Her eyes ran along some lines.
"'My father wishes me to go away, in spite of all my pleadings. 'Youare a man now,' he told me, 'and you must think about your futureand about your duties. You must learn the science of life, a thingwhich your fatherland cannot teach you, so that you may some day beuseful to it. If you remain here in my shadow, in this environmentof business affairs, you will not learn to look far ahead. Theday in which you lose me you will find yourself like the plantof which our poet Baltazar tells: grown in the water, its leaveswither at the least scarcity of moisture and a moment's heat driesit up. Don't you understand? You are almost a young man, and yet youweep!' These reproaches hurt me and I confessed that I loved you. Myfather reflected for a time in silence and then, placing his hand onmy shoulder, said in a trembling voice, 'Do you think that you aloneknow how to love, that your father does not love you, and that he willnot feel the separation from you? It is only a short time since welost your mother, and I must journey on alone toward old age, towardthe very time of life when I would seek help and comfort from youryouth, yet I accept my loneliness, hardly knowing whether I shallever see you again. But you must think of other and greater things;the future lies open before you, while for me it is already passingbehind; your love is just awakening, while mine is dying; fire burnsin your blood, while the chill is creeping into mine. Yet you weepand cannot sacrifice the present for the future, useful as it may bealike to yourself and to your country.' My father's eyes filled withtears and I fell upon my knees at his feet, I embraced him, I beggedhis forgiveness, and I assured him that I was ready to set out--'"
Ibarra's growing agitation caused her to suspend the reading, for hehad grown pale and was pacing back and forth.
"What's the matter? What is troubling you?" she asked him.
"You have almost made me forget that I have my duties, that I mustleave at once for the town. Tomorrow is the day for commemoratingthe dead."
Maria Clara silently fixed her large dreamy eyes upon him for a fewmoments and then, picking some flowers, she said with emotion, "Go,I won't detain you longer! In a few days we shall see each otheragain. Lay these flowers on the tomb of your parents."
A few moments later the youth descended the stairway accompanied byCapitan Tiago and Aunt Isabel, while Maria Clara shut herself up inthe oratory.
"Please tell Andeng to get the house ready, as Maria and Isabel arecoming. A pleasant journey!" said Capitan Tiago as Ibarra stepped intothe carriage, which at once started in the direction of the plaza ofSan Gabriel.
Afterwards, by wa
y of consolation, her father said to Maria Clara, whowas weeping beside an image of the Virgin, "Come, light two candlesworth two reals each, one to St. Roch, [45] and one to St. Raphael,the protector of travelers. Light the lamp of Our Lady of Peace andProsperous Voyages, since there are so many tulisanes. It's betterto spend four reals for wax and six cuartos for oil now than to paya big ransom later."