XXIII.

THE EVE OF THE FETE.

It is the 10th of November, the eve of the fete. The pueblo of San Diego is stirred by an incredible activity; in the houses, the streets, the church, the gallera, all is unwonted movement. From windows flags and rugs are hanging; the air, resounding with bombs and music, seems saturated with gayety. Inside on little tables covered with bordered cloths the dalaga arranges in jars of tinted crystal the confitures made from the native fruits. Servants come and go; orders, whispers, comments, conjectures are everywhere. And all this activity and labor are for guests as often unknown as known; the stranger, the friend, the Filipino, the Spaniard, the rich man, the poor man, will be equally fortunate; and no one will ask his gratitude, nor even demand that he speak well of his host till the end of his dinner.

The red covers which all the year protect the lamps are taken off, and the swinging prisms and crystal pendants strike out harmonies from one another and throw dancing rainbow colors on the white walls. The glass globes, precious heirlooms, are rubbed and polished; the dainty handiwork of the young girls of the house is brought out. Floors shine like mirrors, curtains of pina or silk jusi ornament the doors, and in the windows hang lanterns of crystal or of colored paper. The vases on the Chinese pedestals are heaped with flowers, the saints themselves in their reliquaries are dusted and wreathed with blossoms.

At intervals along the streets rise graceful arches of reed; around the parvis of the church is the costly covered passageway, supported by trunks of bamboos, under which the procession is to pass, and in the centre of the plaza rises the platform of the theatre, with its stage of reed, of nipa, or of wood. The native pyrotechnician, who learns his art from no one knows what master, is getting ready his castles, balloons, and fiery wheels; all the bells of the pueblo are ringing gaily. There are sounds of music in the distance, and the gamins run to meet the bands and give them escort. In comes the fanfare with spirited marches, followed by the ragged and half-naked urchins, who, the moment a number is ended, know it by heart, hum it, whistle it with wonderful accuracy, and are ready to pass judgment on it.

Meanwhile the people of the mountains, the kasama, in gala dress, bring down to the rich of the pueblo wild game and fruits, and the rarest plants of the woods, the biga, with its great leaves, and the tikas-tikas, whose flaming flowers will ornament the doorways of the houses. And from all sides, in all sorts of vehicles, arrive the guests, known and unknown, many bringing with them their best cocks and sacks of gold to risk in the gallera, or on the green cloth.

"The alferez has fifty pesos a night," a little plump man is murmuring in the ears of his guests. "Captain Tiago will hold the bank; Captain Joaquin brings eighteen thousand. There will be liam-po; the Chinese Carlo puts up the game, with a capital of ten thousand. Sporting men are coming from Lipa and Batanzos and Santa Cruz. There will be big play! big play!--but will you take chocolate?--Captain Tiago won't fleece us this year as he did last; and how is your family?"

"Very well, very well, thank you! And Father Damaso?"

"The father will preach in the morning and be with us at the games in the evening."

"He's out of danger now?"

"Without question! Ah, it's the Chinese who will let their hands go!" And in dumb show the little man counted money with his hands.

But the greatest animation of all was at the outskirts of the crowd, around a sort of platform a few paces from the home of Ibarra. Pulleys creaked, cries went up, one heard the metallic ring of stone-cutting, of nail-driving; a band of workmen were opening a long, deep trench; others were placing in line great stones from the quarries of the pueblo, emptying carts, dumping sand, placing capstans.

"This way! That's it! Quick about it!" a little old man of intelligent and animated face was crying. It was the foreman, Senor Juan, architect, mason, carpenter, metalworker, stonecutter, and on occasions sculptor. To each stranger he repeated what he had already said a thousand times.

"Do you know what we are going to build? A model school, like those of Germany, and even better. The plans were traced by Senor R----. I direct the work. Yes, senor, you see it is to be a palace with two wings, one for the boys, the other for the girls. Here in the centre will be a great garden with three fountains, and at the sides little gardens for the children to cultivate plants. That great space you see there is for playgrounds. It will be magnificent!" And the Senor Juan rubbed his hands, thinking of his fame to come. Soothed by its contemplation, he went back and forth, passing everything in review.

"That's too much wood for a crane," he said to a Mongol, who was directing a part of the work. "The three beams that make the tripod and the three joining them would be enough for me."

"But not for me," replied the Mongol, with a peculiar smile, "the more ornament, the more imposing the effect. You will see! I shall trim it, too, with wreaths and streamers. You will say in the end that you were right to give the work into my hands, and Senor Ibarra will have nothing left to desire."

The man smiled still, and Senor Juan laughed and threw back his head.

In truth, Ibarra's project had found an echo almost everywhere. The curate had asked to be a patron and to bless the cornerstone, a ceremony that was to take place the last day of the fete, and to be one of its chief solemnities. One of the most conservative papers of Manila had dedicated to Ibarra on its first page an article entitled, "Imitate Him!" He was therein called "the young and rich capitalist, already a marked man," "the distinguished philanthropist," "the Spanish Filipino," and so forth. The students who had come from Manila for the fete were full of admiration for Ibarra, and ready to take him for their model. But, as almost always when we try to imitate a man who towers above the crowd, we ape his weaknesses, if not his faults, many of these admirers of Crisostomo's held rigorously to the tie of his cravat, or the shape of his collar; almost all to the number of buttons on his vest. Even Captain Tiago burned with generous emulation, and asked himself if he ought not to build a convent.

The dark presentiments of old Tasio seemed dissipated. When Ibarra said so to him, the old pessimist replied: "Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes."

Toward evening Captain Tiago arrived from Manila, bringing Maria Clara, in honor of the fete, a beautiful reliquary of gold, set with emeralds and diamonds, enshrining a splinter from the fishing-boat of St. Peter. Scarcely had he come when a party of Maria's friends came to take her out to see the streets.

"Go," said Captain Tiago, "but come back soon. Father Damaso, you know, is to dine with us. You, too, Crisostomo, must join us."

"With the greatest pleasure," stammered Ibarra, avoiding Maria Clara's eyes, "if I did not feel that I must be at home to receive whoever may come."

"Bring your friends here; there is always room at my table," said Captain Tiago, somewhat coldly. "I wish Father Damaso and you to come to an understanding."

"There is yet time," said Ibarra, forcing a smile.

As they descended to the street, Aunt Isabel following, people moved aside to let them pass. Maria Clara was a vision of loveliness: her pallor had disappeared, and if her eyes remained pensive, her mouth seemed to know only smiles. With the amiability characteristic of happy young womanhood she saluted the people she had known as a child, and they smiled back their admiration. In these few days of freedom she had regained the frank friendliness, the gracious speech, which seemed to have slumbered inside the narrow walls of her convent. She felt a new, intense life within her, and everything without seemed good and beautiful. She showed her love for Ibarra with that maiden sweetness which comes from pure thoughts and knows no reason for false blushes.

At regular intervals in the streets were kindled great clustered lights with bamboo supports, like candelabra. People were beginning to illuminate their houses, and through the open windows one could see the guests moving about in the radiance among the flowers to the music of harp, piano, or orchestra. Outside, in gala costume, native or European, Chinese, Spaniards, and Filipinos were moving in all directions, escaping with difficulty the crush of carriages and calashes.

When the party reached Captain Basilio's house, Sinang saw them, and ran down the steps.

"Come up till I'm ready to go out with you," she said. "I'm weary of all these strangers who talk of nothing but cocks and cards."

The house was full of people. Many came up to greet Crisostomo, and all admired Maria Clara. "Beautiful as the Virgin!" the old dames whispered, chewing their buyo.

Here they must take chocolate. As they were leaving, Captain Basilio said in Ibarra's ear:

"Won't you join us this evening? Father Damaso is going to make up a little purse."

Ibarra smiled and answered by a movement of the head, which might have meant anything.

Chatting and laughing, the merry party went on past the brilliantly illuminated houses. At length they came to one fast closed and dark. It was the home of the alferez. Maria was astonished.

"It's that old sorceress. The Muse of the Municipal Guard, as Tasio calls her," said Sinang. "Her house is in mourning because the people are gay."

At a corner of the plaza, where a blind man was singing, an uncommon sight offered itself. A man stood there, miserably dressed, his head covered by a great salakot of palm leaves, which completely hid his face, though from its shadow two lights gleamed and went out fitfully. He was tall, and, from his figure, young. He pushed forward a basket, and after speaking some unintelligible words drew back and stood completely isolated. Women passing put fruit and rice into his basket, and at this he came forward a little, speaking what seemed to be his thanks.

Maria Clara felt the presence of some great suffering. "Who is it?" she asked Iday.

"It's a leper. He lives outside the pueblo, near the Chinese cemetery; every one fears to go near him. If you could see his cabin! The wind, the rain, and the sun must visit him as they like."

"Poor man!" murmured Maria Clara, and hardly knowing what she did, she went up and put into the basket the reliquary her father had just given her.

"Maria!" exclaimed her friends.

"I had nothing else," she said, forcing back the tears.

"What will he do with the reliquary? He can't sell it! Nobody will touch it now! If only it could be eaten!" said Sinang.

But the leper went to the basket, took the glittering thing in his hands, fell on his knees, kissed it, and bent his head to the ground, uncovering humbly. Maria Clara turned her face to hide the tears.

As the leper knelt, a woman crept up and knelt beside him. By her long, loose hair and emaciated face the people recognized Sisa. The leper, feeling her touch, sprang up with a cry; but, to the horror of the crowd, she clung to his arm.

"Pray! Pray!" said she. "It is the Feast of the Dead! These lights are the souls of men. Pray for my sons!"

"Separate them! Separate them!" cried the crowd; but no one dared do it.

"Do you see the light in the tower? That is my son Basilio, ringing the bells. Do you see that other in the manse? That is my son Crispin; but I cannot go to them, because the curate is ill, and his money is lost. I carried the curate fruit from my garden. My garden was full of flowers, and I had two sons. I had a garden, I tended my flowers, and I had two sons."

And leaving the leper she moved away, singing:

"I had a garden and flowers. I had two sons, a garden and flowers."

"What have you done for that poor woman?" Maria asked Ibarra.

"Nothing yet," he replied, somewhat confused. "But don't be troubled; the curate has promised to aid me."

As they spoke, a soldier came dragging Sisa back, rather than leading her. She was resisting.

"Where are you taking her? What has she done?" asked Ibarra.

"What has she done? Didn't you hear the noise she made?" said the guardian of public tranquillity.

The leper took up his basket and vanished. Maria Clara asked to go home. She had lost all her gayety. Her sadness increased when, arrived at her door, her fiance refused to go in.

"It must be so to-night," he said as he bade her good-by.

Maria, mounting the steps, thought how tiresome were fete days, when one must receive so many strangers.

The next evening a little perfumed note came to Ibarra by the hand of Andeng, Maria's foster sister.

"Crisostomo, for a whole day I have not seen you. They tell me you are ill. I have lighted two candles and prayed for you. I'm so tired of being asked to play and dance. I did not know there were so many tiresome people in the world. If Father Damaso had not tried to amuse me with stories, I should have left them all and gone away to sleep. Write me how you are, and if I shall send papa to see you. I send you Andeng now to make your tea; she will do it better than your servants. If you don't come to-morrow, I shall not go to the ceremony.

Maria Clara."