CHAPTER III
LEGENDS
Ich weiss nicht was soil es bedeuten Dass ich so traurig bin!
When Padre Florentino joined the group above, the bad humor provoked bythe previous discussion had entirely disappeared. Perhaps their spiritshad been raised by the attractive houses of the town of Pasig, or theglasses of sherry they had drunk in preparation for the coming meal, orthe prospect of a good breakfast. Whatever the cause, the fact was thatthey were all laughing and joking, even including the lean Franciscan,although he made little noise and his smiles looked like death-grins.
"Evil times, evil times!" said Padre Sibyla with a laugh.
"Get out, don't say that, Vice-Rector!" responded the Canon Irene,giving the other's chair a shove. "In Hongkong you're doing a finebusiness, putting up every building that--ha, ha!"
"Tut, tut!" was the reply; "you don't see our expenses, and thetenants on our estates are beginning to complain--"
"Here, enough of complaints, _punales,_ else I'll fall toweeping!" cried Padre Camorra gleefully. "We're not complaining,and we haven't either estates or banking-houses. You know that myIndians are beginning to haggle over the fees and to flash schedules onme! Just look how they cite schedules to me now, and none other thanthose of the Archbishop Basilio Sancho, [10] as if from his time upto now prices had not risen. Ha, ha, ha! Why should a baptism costless than a chicken? But I play the deaf man, collect what I can,and never complain. We're not avaricious, are we, Padre Salvi?"
At that moment Simoun's head appeared above the hatchway.
"Well, where've you been keeping yourself?" Don Custodio called tohim, having forgotten all about their dispute. "You're missing theprettiest part of the trip!"
"Pshaw!" retorted Simoun, as he ascended, "I've seen so many riversand landscapes that I'm only interested in those that call up legends."
"As for legends, the Pasig has a few," observed the captain, who didnot relish any depreciation of the river where he navigated and earnedhis livelihood. "Here you have that of _Malapad-na-bato,_ a rock sacredbefore the coming of the Spaniards as the abode of spirits. Afterwards,when the superstition had been dissipated and the rock profaned, it wasconverted into a nest of tulisanes, since from its crest they easilycaptured the luckless bankas, which had to contend against both thecurrents and men. Later, in our time, in spite of human interference,there are still told stories about wrecked bankas, and if on roundingit I didn't steer with my six senses, I'd be smashed against itssides. Then you have another legend, that of Dona Jeronima's cave,which Padre Florentino can relate to you."
"Everybody knows that," remarked Padre Sibyla disdainfully.
But neither Simoun, nor Ben-Zayb, nor Padre Irene, nor Padre Camorraknew it, so they begged for the story, some in jest and others fromgenuine curiosity. The priest, adopting the tone of burlesque withwhich some had made their request, began like an old tutor relatinga story to children.
"Once upon a time there was a student who had made a promise ofmarriage to a young woman in his country, but it seems that he failedto remember her. She waited for him faithfully year after year, heryouth passed, she grew into middle age, and then one day she heard areport that her old sweetheart was the Archbishop of Manila. Disguisingherself as a man, she came round the Cape and presented herself beforehis grace, demanding the fulfilment of his promise. What she askedwas of course impossible, so the Archbishop ordered the preparationof the cave that you may have noticed with its entrance covered anddecorated with a curtain of vines. There she lived and died and thereshe is buried. The legend states that Dona Jeronima was so fat thatshe had to turn sidewise to get into it. Her fame as an enchantresssprung from her custom of throwing into the river the silver disheswhich she used in the sumptuous banquets that were attended by crowdsof gentlemen. A net was spread under the water to hold the dishesand thus they were cleaned. It hasn't been twenty years since theriver washed the very entrance of the cave, but it has gradually beenreceding, just as the memory of her is dying out among the people."
"A beautiful legend!" exclaimed Ben-Zayb. "I'm going to write anarticle about it. It's sentimental!"
Dona Victorina thought of dwelling in such a cave and was about tosay so, when Simoun took the floor instead.
"But what's your opinion about that, Padre Salvi?" he asked theFranciscan, who seemed to be absorbed in thought. "Doesn't it seem toyou as though his Grace, instead of giving her a cave, ought to haveplaced her in a nunnery--in St. Clara's, for example? What do you say?"
There was a start of surprise on Padre Sibyla's part to notice thatPadre Salvi shuddered and looked askance at Simoun.
"Because it's not a very gallant act," continued Simoun quitenaturally, "to give a rocky cliff as a home to one with whosehopes we have trifled. It's hardly religious to expose her thus totemptation, in a cave on the banks of a river--it smacks of nymphs anddryads. It would have been more gallant, more pious, more romantic,more in keeping with the customs of this country, to shut her up inSt. Clara's, like a new Eloise, in order to visit and console herfrom time to time."
"I neither can nor should pass judgment upon the conduct ofarchbishops," replied the Franciscan sourly.
"But you, who are the ecclesiastical governor, acting in the placeof our Archbishop, what would you do if such a case should arise?"
Padre Salvi shrugged his shoulders and calmly responded, "It's notworth while thinking about what can't happen. But speaking of legends,don't overlook the most beautiful, since it is the truest: that ofthe miracle of St. Nicholas, the ruins of whose church you may havenoticed. I'm going to relate it to Senor Simoun, as he probably hasn'theard it. It seems that formerly the river, as well as the lake,was infested with caymans, so huge and voracious that they attackedbankas and upset them with a slap of the tail. Our chronicles relatethat one day an infidel Chinaman, who up to that time had refused to beconverted, was passing in front of the church, when suddenly the devilpresented himself to him in the form of a cayman and upset the banka,in order to devour him and carry him off to hell. Inspired by God,the Chinaman at that moment called upon St. Nicholas and instantlythe cayman was changed into a stone. The old people say that intheir time the monster could easily be recognized in the pieces ofstone that were left, and, for my part, I can assure you that I haveclearly made out the head, to judge from which the monster must havebeen enormously large."
"Marvelous, a marvelous legend!" exclaimed Ben-Zayb. "It's good for anarticle--the description of the monster, the terror of the Chinaman,the waters of the river, the bamboo brakes. Also, it'll do for a studyof comparative religions; because, look you, an infidel Chinaman ingreat distress invoked exactly the saint that he must know only byhearsay and in whom he did not believe. Here there's no room for theproverb that 'a known evil is preferable to an unknown good.' If Ishould find myself in China and get caught in such a difficulty, Iwould invoke the obscurest saint in the calendar before Confucius orBuddha. Whether this is due to the manifest superiority of Catholicismor to the inconsequential and illogical inconsistency in the brainsof the yellow race, a profound study of anthropology alone will beable to elucidate."
Ben-Zayb had adopted the tone of a lecturer and was describingcircles in the air with his forefinger, priding himself on hisimagination, which from the most insignificant facts could deduceso many applications and inferences. But noticing that Simoun waspreoccupied and thinking that he was pondering over what he, Ben-Zayb,had just said, he inquired what the jeweler was meditating about.
"About two very important questions," answered Simoun; "two questionsthat you might add to your article. First, what may have become ofthe devil on seeing himself suddenly confined within a stone? Did heescape? Did he stay there? Was he crushed? Second, if the petrifiedanimals that I have seen in various European museums may not havebeen the victims of some antediluvian saint?"
The tone in which the jeweler spoke was so serious, while he restedhis forehead on the tip of his forefinger in an attitude of deepmeditation, that Padre C
amorra responded very gravely, "Who knows,who knows?"
"Since we're busy with legends and are now entering the lake,"remarked Padre Sibyla, "the captain must know many--"
At that moment the steamer crossed the bar and the panorama spread outbefore their eyes was so truly magnificent that all were impressed. Infront extended the beautiful lake bordered by green shores and bluemountains, like a huge mirror, framed in emeralds and sapphires,reflecting the sky in its glass. On the right were spread out thelow shores, forming bays with graceful curves, and dim there in thedistance the crags of Sungay, while in the background rose Makiling,imposing and majestic, crowned with fleecy clouds. On the left layTalim Island with its curious sweep of hills. A fresh breeze rippledover the wide plain of water.
"By the way, captain," said Ben-Zayb, turning around, "do you knowin what part of the lake a certain Guevara, Navarra, or Ibarra,was killed?"
The group looked toward the captain, with the exception of Simoun, whohad turned away his head as though to look for something on the shore.
"Ah, yes!" exclaimed Dona Victorina. "Where, captain? Did he leaveany tracks in the water?"
The good captain winked several times, an indication that he wasannoyed, but reading the request in the eyes of all, took a few stepstoward the bow and scanned the shore.
"Look over there," he said in a scarcely audible voice, after makingsure that no strangers were near. "According to the officer whoconducted the pursuit, Ibarra, upon finding himself surrounded, jumpedout of his banka there near the Kinabutasan [11] and, swimming underwater, covered all that distance of more than two miles, saluted bybullets every time that he raised his head to breathe. Over yonder iswhere they lost track of him, and a little farther on near the shorethey discovered something like the color of blood. And now I thinkof it, it's just thirteen years, day for day, since this happened."
"So that his corpse--" began Ben-Zayb.
"Went to join his father's," replied Padre Sibyla. "Wasn't he alsoanother filibuster, Padre Salvi?"
"That's what might be called cheap funerals, Padre Camorra,eh?" remarked Ben-Zayb.
"I've always said that those who won't pay for expensive funeralsare filibusters," rejoined the person addressed, with a merry laugh.
"But what's the matter with you, Senor Simoun?" inquired Ben-Zayb,seeing that the jeweler was motionless and thoughtful. "Are youseasick--an old traveler like you? On such a drop of water as this!"
"I want to tell you," broke in the captain, who had come to hold allthose places in great affection, "that you can't call this a dropof water. It's larger than any lake in Switzerland and all those inSpain put together. I've seen old sailors who got seasick here."