CHAPTER XXIII
A CORPSE
Simoun had not, in fact, gone to the theater. Already, at seven o'clockin the evening, he had left his house looking worried and gloomy. Hisservants saw him return twice, accompanied by different individuals,and at eight o'clock Makaraig encountered him pacing along CalleHospital near the nunnery of St. Clara, just when the bells of itschurch were ringing a funeral knell. At nine Camaroncocido saw himagain, in the neighborhood of the theater, speak with a person whoseemed to be a student, pay the latter's admission to the show,and again disappear among the shadows of the trees.
"What is it to me?" again muttered Camaroncocido. "What do I get outof watching over the populace?"
Basilio, as Makaraig said, had not gone to the show. The poor student,after returning from San Diego, whither he had gone to ransom Juli,his future bride, from her servitude, had turned again to his studies,spending his time in the hospital, in studying, or in nursing CapitanTiago, whose affliction he was trying to cure.
The invalid had become an intolerable character. During his bad spells,when he felt depressed from lack of opium, the doses of which Basiliowas trying to reduce, he would scold, mistreat, and abuse the boy, whobore it resignedly, conscious that he was doing good to one to whomhe owed so much, and yielded only in the last extremity. His viciousappetite satisfied, Capitan Tiago would fall into a good humor, becometender, and call him his son, tearfully recalling the youth's services,how well he administered the estates, and would even talk of making himhis heir. Basilio would smile bitterly and reflect that in this worldcomplaisance with vice is rewarded better than fulfilment of duty. Nota few times did he feel tempted to give free rein to the craving andconduct his benefactor to the grave by a path of flowers and smilingillusions rather than lengthen his life along a road of sacrifice.
"What a fool I am!" he often said to himself. "People are stupid andthen pay for it."
But he would shake his head as he thought of Juli, of the widefuture before him. He counted upon living without a stain on hisconscience, so he continued the treatment prescribed, and boreeverything patiently.
Yet with all his care the sick man, except for short periods ofimprovement, grew worse. Basilio had planned gradually to reducethe amount of the dose, or at least not to let him injure himselfby increasing it, but on returning from the hospital or some visithe would find his patient in the heavy slumber produced by the opium,driveling, pale as a corpse. The young man could not explain whence thedrug came: the only two persons who visited the house were Simoun andPadre Irene, the former rarely, while the latter never ceased exhortinghim to be severe and inexorable with the treatment, to take no noticeof the invalid's ravings, for the main object was to save him.
"Do your duty, young man," was Padre Irene's constant admonition. "Doyour duty." Then he would deliver a sermon on this topic with suchgreat conviction and enthusiasm that Basilio would begin to feelkindly toward the preacher. Besides, Padre Irene promised to get him afine assignment, a good province, and even hinted at the possibilityof having him appointed a professor. Without being carried away byillusions, Basilio pretended to believe in them and went on obeyingthe dictates of his own conscience.
That night, while _Les Cloches de Corneville_ was being presented,Basilio was studying at an old table by the light of an oil-lamp, whosethick glass globe partly illuminated his melancholy features. An oldskull, some human bones, and a few books carefully arranged coveredthe table, whereon there was also a pan of water with a sponge. Thesmell of opium that proceeded from the adjoining bedroom made theair heavy and inclined him to sleep, but he overcame the desire bybathing his temples and eyes from time to time, determined not to goto sleep until he had finished the book, which he had borrowed andmust return as soon as possible. It was a volume of the _MedicinaLegal y Toxicologia_ of Dr. Friata, the only book that the professorwould use, and Basilio lacked money to buy a copy, since, underthe pretext of its being forbidden by the censor in Manila and thenecessity for bribing many government employees to get it in, thebooksellers charged a high price for it.
So absorbed wras the youth in his studies that he had not given anyattention at all to some pamphlets that had been sent to him fromsome unknown source, pamphlets that treated of the Philippines, amongwhich figured those that were attracting the greatest notice at thetime because of their harsh and insulting manner of referring to thenatives of the country. Basilio had no time to open them, and he wasperhaps restrained also by the thought that there is nothing pleasantabout receiving an insult or a provocation without having any meansof replying or defending oneself. The censorship, in fact, permittedinsults to the Filipinos but prohibited replies on their part.
In the midst of the silence that reigned in the house, broken only bya feeble snore that issued now and then from the adjoining bedroom,Basilio heard light footfalls on the stairs, footfalls that sooncrossed the hallway and approached the room where he was. Raisinghis head, he saw the door open and to his great surprise appearedthe sinister figure of the jeweler Simoun, who since the scene inSan Diego had not come to visit either himself or Capitan Tiago.
"How is the sick man?" he inquired, throwing a rapid glance about theroom and fixing his attention on the pamphlets, the leaves of whichwere still uncut.
"The beating of his heart is scarcely perceptible, his pulse is veryweak, his appetite entirely gone," replied Basilio in a low voicewith a sad smile. "He sweats profusely in the early morning."
Noticing that Simoun kept his face turned toward the pamphlets andfearing that he might reopen the subject of their conversation inthe wood, he went on: "His system is saturated with poison. He maydie any day, as though struck by lightning. The least irritation,any excitement may kill him."
"Like the Philippines!" observed Simoun lugubriously.
Basilio was unable to refrain from a gesture of impatience, but hewas determined not to recur to the old subject, so he proceeded as ifhe had heard nothing: "What weakens him the most is the nightmares,his terrors--"
"Like the government!" again interrupted Simoun.
"Several nights ago he awoke in the dark and thought that he hadgone blind. He raised a disturbance, lamenting and scolding me,saying that I had put his eyes out. When I entered his room with alight he mistook me for Padre Irene and called me his saviour."
"Like the government, exactly!"
"Last night," continued Basilio, paying no attention, "he got upbegging for his favorite game-cock, the one that died three yearsago, and I had to give him a chicken. Then he heaped blessings uponme and promised me many thousands--"
At that instant a clock struck half-past ten. Simoun shuddered andstopped the youth with a gesture.
"Basilio," he said in a low, tense voice, "listen to me carefully,for the moments are precious. I see that you haven't opened thepamphlets that I sent you. You're not interested in your country."
The youth started to protest.
"It's useless," went on Simoun dryly. "Within an hour the revolutionis going to break out at a signal from me, and tomorrow there'llbe no studies, there'll be no University, there'll be nothing butfighting and butchery. I have everything ready and my success isassured. When we triumph, all those who could have helped us and didnot do so will be treated as enemies. Basilio, I've come to offeryou death or a future!"
"Death or a future!" the boy echoed, as though he did not understand.
"With us or with the government," rejoined Simoun. "With your countryor with your oppressors. Decide, for time presses! I've come to saveyou because of the memories that unite us!"
"With my country or with the oppressors!" repeated Basilio in a lowtone. The youth was stupefied. He gazed at the jeweler with eyesin which terror was reflected, he felt his limbs turn cold, while athousand confused ideas whirled about in his mind. He saw the streetsrunning blood, he heard the firing, he found himself among the dead andwounded, and by the peculiar force of his inclinations fancied himselfin an operator's blouse, cutting off legs and extracting
bullets.
"The will of the government is in my hands," said Simoun. "I'vediverted and wasted its feeble strength and resources on foolishexpeditions, dazzling it with the plunder it might seize. Its headsare now in the theater, calm and unsuspecting, thinking of a nightof pleasure, but not one shall again repose upon a pillow. I havemen and regiments at my disposition: some I have led to believe thatthe uprising is ordered by the General; others that the friars arebringing it about; some I have bought with promises, with employments,with money; many, very many, are acting from revenge, because they areoppressed and see it as a matter of killing or being killed. CabesangTales is below, he has come with me here! Again I ask you--will youcome with us or do you prefer to expose yourself to the resentmentof my followers? In critical moments, to declare oneself neutral isto be exposed to the wrath of both the contending parties."
Basilio rubbed his hand over his face several times, as if he weretrying to wake from a nightmare. He felt that his brow was cold.
"Decide!" repeated Simoun.
"And what--what would I have to do?" asked the youth in a weak andbroken voice.
"A very simple thing," replied Simoun, his face lighting up with aray of hope. "As I have to direct the movement, I cannot get away fromthe scene of action. I want you, while the attention of the whole cityis directed elsewhere, at the head of a company to force the doors ofthe nunnery of St. Clara and take from there a person whom only you,besides myself and Capitan Tiago, can recognize. You'll run no riskat all."
"Maria Clara!" exclaimed Basilio.
"Yes, Maria Clara," repeated Simoun, and for the first time his voicebecame human and compassionate. "I want to save her; to save her Ihave wished to live, I have returned. I am starting the revolution,because only a revolution can open the doors of the nunneries."
"Ay!" sighed Basilio, clasping his hands. "You've come late, too late!"
"Why?" inquired Simoun with a frown.
"Maria Clara is dead!"
Simoun arose with a bound and stood over the youth. "She's dead?" hedemanded in a terrible voice.
"This afternoon, at six. By now she must be--"
"It's a lie!" roared Simoun, pale and beside himself. "It'sfalse! Maria Clara lives, Maria Clara must live! It's a cowardlyexcuse! She's not dead, and this night I'll free her or tomorrowyou die!"
Basilio shrugged his shoulders. "Several days ago she was taken illand I went to the nunnery for news of her. Look, here is Padre Salvi'sletter, brought by Padre Irene. Capitan Tiago wept all the evening,kissing his daughter's picture and begging her forgiveness, until atlast he smoked an enormous quantity of opium. This evening her knellwas tolled."
"Ah!" exclaimed Simoun, pressing his hands to his head and standingmotionless. He remembered to have actually heard the knell while hewas pacing about in the vicinity of the nunnery.
"Dead!" he murmured in a voice so low that it seemed to be a ghostwhispering. "Dead! Dead without my having seen her, dead withoutknowing that I lived for her--dead!"
Feeling a terrible storm, a tempest of whirlwind and thunder withouta drop of water, sobs without tears, cries without words, rage in hisbreast and threaten to burst out like burning lava long repressed,he rushed precipitately from the room. Basilio heard him descend thestairs with unsteady tread, stepping heavily, he heard a stifled cry,a cry that seemed to presage death, so solemn, deep, and sad thathe arose from his chair pale and trembling, but he could hear thefootsteps die away and the noisy closing of the door to the street.
"Poor fellow!" he murmured, while his eyes filled with tears. Heedlessnow of his studies, he let his gaze wander into space as he ponderedover the fate of those two beings: he--young, rich, educated, masterof his fortunes, with a brilliant future before him; she--fair asa dream, pure, full of faith and innocence, nurtured amid love andlaughter, destined to a happy existence, to be adored in the familyand respected in the world; and yet of those two beings, filled withlove, with illusions and hopes, by a fatal destiny he wandered overthe world, dragged ceaselessly through a whirl of blood and tears,sowing evil instead of doing good, undoing virtue and encouraging vice,while she was dying in the mysterious shadows of the cloister whereshe had sought peace and perhaps found suffering, where she enteredpure and stainless and expired like a crushed flower!
Sleep in peace, ill-starred daughter of my hapless fatherland! Buryin the grave the enchantments of youth, faded in their prime! When apeople cannot offer its daughters a tranquil home under the protectionof sacred liberty, when a man can only leave to his widow blushes,tears to his mother, and slavery to his children, you do well tocondemn yourself to perpetual chastity, stifling within you the germof a future generation accursed! Well for you that you have notto shudder in your grave, hearing the cries of those who groan indarkness, of those who feel that they have wings and yet are fettered,of those who are stifled from lack of liberty! Go, go with your poet'sdreams into the regions of the infinite, spirit of woman dim-shadowedin the moonlight's beam, whispered in the bending arches of thebamboo-brakes! Happy she who dies lamented, she who leaves in theheart that loves her a pure picture, a sacred remembrance, unspottedby the base passions engendered by the years! Go, we shall rememberyou! In the clear air of our native land, under its azure sky, abovethe billows of the lake set amid sapphire hills and emerald shores,in the crystal streams shaded by the bamboos, bordered by flowers,enlivened by the beetles and butterflies with their uncertain andwavering flight as though playing with the air, in the silence ofour forests, in the singing of our rivers, in the diamond showers ofour waterfalls, in the resplendent light of our moon, in the sighs ofthe night breeze, in all that may call up the vision of the beloved,we must eternally see you as we dreamed of you, fair, beautiful,radiant with hope, pure as the light, yet still sad and melancholyin the contemplation of our woes!