"And how is that?"
The schoolmaster smiled sadly.
"It is a long story."
"Don"t think I ask from curiosity," said Ibarra. "I have thought much about it, and it seems to me better to try to carry out my father"s ideas than to weep or to avenge his death. I wish to inspire myself with his spirit. That is why I ask this question."
"The country will bless your memory, senor, if you carry out the splendid projects of your father. You wish to know the obstacles I meet? In a word, the plan of instruction is hopeless. The children read, write, learn by heart pa.s.sages, sometimes whole books, in Castilian, without understanding a single word. Of what use is such a school to the children of our peasants!"
"You see the evil, what remedy do you propose?"
"I have none," said the young man; "one cannot struggle alone against so many needs and against certain influences. I tried to remedy the evil of which I just spoke; I tried to carry out the order of the Government, and began to teach the children Spanish. The beginning was excellent, but one day Brother Damaso sent for me. I went up immediately, and I said good-day to him in Castilian. Without replying, he burst into laughter. At length he said, with a sidelong glance: "What buenos dias! buenos dias! It"s very pretty. You know Spanish?" and he began to laugh again."
Ibarra could not repress a smile.
"You laugh," said the teacher, "and I, too, now; but I a.s.sure you I had no desire to then. I started to reply, I don"t know what, but Brother Damaso interrupted:
""Don"t wear clothes that are not your own," he said in Tagal; "be content to speak your own language. Do you know about Ciruela? Well, Ciruela was a master who could neither read nor write, yet he kept school." And he left the room, slamming the door behind him. What was I to do? What could I, against him, the highest authority of the pueblo, moral, political, and civil; backed by his order, feared by the Government, rich, powerful, always obeyed and believed. To withstand him was to lose my place, and break off my career without hope of another. Every one would have sided with the priest. I should have been called proud, insolent, no Christian, perhaps even anti-Spanish and filibustero. Heaven forgive me if I denied my conscience and my reason, but I was born here, must live here, I have a mother, and I abandoned myself to my fate, as a cadaver to the wave that rolls it."
"And you lost all hope? You have tried nothing since?"
"I was rash enough to try two more experiments, one after our change of curates; but both proved offensive to the same authority. Since then I have done my best to convert the poor babies into parrots."
"Well, I have cheerful news for you," said Ibarra. "I am soon to present to the Government a project that will help you out of your difficulties, if it is approved."
The school-teacher shook his head.
"You will see, Senor Ibarra, that your projects--I"ve heard something of them--will no more be realized than were mine!"
XVIII.
THE STORY OF A MOTHER.
Sisa was running toward her poor little home. She had experienced one of those convulsions of being which we know at the hour of a great misfortune, when we see no possible refuge and all our hopes take flight. If then a ray of light illumine some little corner, we fly toward it without stopping to question.
Sisa ran swiftly, pursued by many fears and dark presentiments. Had they already taken her Basilio? Where had her Crispin hidden?
As she neared her home, she saw two soldiers coming out of the little garden. She lifted her eyes to heaven; heaven was smiling in its ineffable light; little white clouds swam in the transparent blue.
The soldiers had left her house; they were coming away without her children. Sisa breathed once more; her senses came back.
She looked again, this time with grateful eyes, at the sky, furrowed now by a band of garzas, those clouds of airy gray peculiar to the Philippines; confidence sprang again in her heart; she walked on. Once past those dreadful men, she would have run, but prudence checked her. She had not gone far, when she heard herself called imperiously. She turned, pale and trembling in spite of herself. One of the guards beckoned her.
Mechanically she obeyed: she felt her tongue grow paralyzed, her throat parch.
"Speak the truth, or we"ll tie you to this tree and shoot you,"
said one of the guards.
Sisa could do nothing but look at the tree.
"You are the mother of the thieves?"
"The mother of the thieves?" repeated Sisa, without comprehending.
"Where is the money your sons brought home last night?"
"Ah! the money----"
"Give us the money, and we"ll let you alone."
"Senores," said the unhappy woman, gathering her senses again, "my boys do not steal, even when they"re hungry; we are used to suffering. I have not seen my Crispin for a week, and Basilio did not bring home a cuarto. Search the house, and if you find a real, do what you will with us; the poor are not all thieves."
"Well then," said one of the soldiers, fixing his eyes on Sisa"s, "follow us!"
"I--follow you?" And she drew back in terror, her eyes on the uniforms of the guards. "Oh, have pity on me! I"m very poor, I"ve nothing to give you, neither gold nor jewelry. Take everything you find in my miserable cabin, but let me--let me--die here in peace!"
"March! do you hear? and if you don"t go without making trouble, we"ll tie your hands."
"Let me walk a little way in front of you, at least," she cried, as they laid hold of her.
The soldiers spoke together apart.
"Very well," said one, "when we get to the pueblo, you may. March on now, and quick!"
Poor Sisa thought she must die of shame. There was no one on the road, it is true; but the air? and the light? She covered her face, in her humiliation, and wept silently. She was indeed very miserable; every one, even her husband, had abandoned her; but until now she had always felt herself respected.
As they neared the pueblo, fear seized her. In her agony she looked on all sides, seeking some succor in nature--death in the river would be so sweet. But no! She thought of her children; here was a light in the darkness of her soul.
"Afterward," she said to herself,--"afterward, we will go to live in the heart of the forest."
She dried her eyes, and turning to the guards:
"We are at the pueblo," she said. Her tone was indescribable; at once a complaint, an argument, and a prayer.
The soldiers took pity on her; they replied with a gesture. Sisa went rapidly forward, then forced herself to walk tranquilly.
A tolling of bells announced the end of the high ma.s.s. Sisa hastened, in the hope of avoiding the crowd from the church, but in vain. Two women she knew pa.s.sed, looked at her questioningly; she bowed with an anguished smile, then, to avoid new mortifications, she fixed her eyes on the ground.
At sight of her people turned, whispered, followed with their eyes, and though her eyes were turned away, she divined, she felt, she saw it all. A woman who by her bare head, her dress, and her manners showed what she was, cried boldly to the soldiers:
"Where did you find her? Did you get the money?"
Sisa seemed to have taken a blow in the face. The ground gave way under her feet.