The Reign of Greed
kissed by children and grown men doubled over almost to kneeling;
instead of the full refectory and dining-hall, their stage in Europe,
in Manila they had the oratory, the study-table; instead of the
mendicant friar who goes from door to door with his donkey and sack,
begging alms, the friars of the Philippines scattered gold from full
hands among the miserable Indians.
“Look, here’s Padre Camorra!” exclaimed Ben-Zayb, upon whom the effect
of the champagne still lingered. He pointed to a picture of a lean
friar of thoughtful mien who was seated at a table with his head
resting on the palm of his hand, apparently writing a sermon by the
light of a lamp. The contrast suggested drew laughter from the crowd.
Padre Camorra, who had already forgotten about Paulita, saw what was
meant and laughing his clownish laugh, asked in turn, “Whom does this
other figure resemble, Ben-Zayb?”
It was an old woman with one eye, with disheveled hair, seated on the
ground like an Indian idol, ironing clothes. The sad-iron was carefully
imitated, being of copper with coals of red tinsel and smoke-wreaths of
dirty twisted cotton.
“Eh, Ben-Zayb, it wasn’t a fool who designed that” asked Padre Camorra
with a laugh.
“Well, I don’t see the point,” replied the journalist.
“But, puñales, don’t you see the title, The Philippine Press? That
utensil with which the old woman is ironing is here called the press!”
All laughed at this, Ben-Zayb himself joining in good-naturedly.
Two soldiers of the Civil Guard, appropriately labeled, were placed
behind a man who was tightly bound and had his face covered by his hat.
It was entitled The Country of Abaka, [39] and from appearances they
were going to shoot him.
Many of our visitors were displeased with the exhibition. They talked
of rules of art, they sought proportion—one said that this figure did
not have seven heads, that the face lacked a nose, having only three,
all of which made Padre Camorra somewhat thoughtful, for he did not
comprehend how a figure, to be correct, need have four noses and seven
heads. Others said, if they were muscular, that they could not be
Indians; still others remarked that it was not sculpture, but mere
carpentry. Each added his spoonful of criticism, until Padre Camorra,
not to be outdone, ventured to ask for at least thirty legs for each
doll, because, if the others wanted noses, couldn’t he require feet? So
they fell to discussing whether the Indian had or had not any aptitude
for sculpture, and whether it would be advisable to encourage that art,
until there arose a general dispute, which was cut short by Don
Custodio’s declaration that the Indians had the aptitude, but that they
should devote themselves exclusively to the manufacture of saints.
“One would say,” observed Ben-Zayb, who was full of bright ideas that
night, “that this Chinaman is Quiroga, but on close examination it
looks like Padre Irene. And what do you say about that British Indian?
He looks like Simoun!”
Fresh peals of laughter resounded, while Padre Irene rubbed his nose.
“That’s right!”
“It’s the very image of him!”
“But where is Simoun? Simoun should buy it.”
But the jeweler had disappeared, unnoticed by any one.
“Puñales!” exclaimed Padre Camorra, “how stingy the American is! He’s
afraid we would make him pay the admission for all of us into Mr.
Leeds’ show.”
“No!” rejoined Ben-Zayb, “what he’s afraid of is that he’ll compromise
himself. He may have foreseen the joke in store for his friend Mr.
Leeds and has got out of the way.”
Thus, without purchasing the least trifle, they continued on their way
to see the famous sphinx. Ben-Zayb offered to manage the affair, for
the American would not rebuff a journalist who could take revenge in an
unfavorable article. “You’ll see that it’s all a question of mirrors,”
he said, “because, you see—” Again he plunged into a long
demonstration, and as he had no mirrors at hand to discredit his theory
he tangled himself up in all kinds of blunders and wound up by not
knowing himself what he was saying. “In short, you’ll see how it’s all
a question of optics.”
CHAPTER XVIII
LEGERDEMAIN
Mr. Leeds, a genuine Yankee, dressed completely in black, received his
visitors with great deference. He spoke Spanish well, from having been
for many years in South America, and offered no objection to their
request, saying that they might examine everything, both before and
after the exhibition, but begged that they remain quiet while it was in
progress. Ben-Zayb smiled in pleasant anticipation of the vexation he
had prepared for the American.
The room, hung entirely in black, was lighted by ancient lamps burning
alcohol. A rail wrapped in black velvet divided it into two almost
equal parts, one of which was filled with seats for the spectators and
the other occupied by a platform covered with a checkered carpet. In
the center of this platform was placed a table, over which was spread a
piece of black cloth adorned with skulls and cabalistic signs. The mise
en scène was therefore lugubrious and had its effect upon the merry
visitors. The jokes died away, they spoke in whispers, and however much
some tried to appear indifferent, their lips framed no smiles. All felt
as if they had entered a house where there was a corpse, an illusion
accentuated by an odor of wax and incense. Don Custodio and Padre Salvi
consulted in whispers over the expediency of prohibiting such shows.
Ben-Zayb, in order to cheer the dispirited group and embarrass Mr.
Leeds, said to him in a familiar tone: “Eh, Mister, since there are
none but ourselves here and we aren’t Indians who can be fooled, won’t
you let us see the trick? We know of course that it’s purely a question
of optics, but as Padre Camorra won’t be convinced—”
Here he started to jump over the rail, instead of going through the
proper opening, while Padre Camorra broke out into protests, fearing
that Ben-Zayb might be right.
“And why not, sir?” rejoined the American. “But don’t break anything,
will you?”
The journalist was already on the platform. “You will allow me, then?”
he asked, and without waiting for the permission, fearing that it might
not be granted, raised the cloth to look for the mirrors that he
expected should be between the legs of the table. Ben-Zayb uttered an
exclamation and stepped back, again placed both hands under the table
and waved them about; he encountered only empty space. The table had
three thin iron legs, sunk into the floor.
The journalist looked all about as though seeking something.
“Where are the mirrors?” asked Padre Camorra.
Ben-Zayb looked and looked, felt the table with his fingers, raised the
cloth again, and rubbed his hand over his forehead from time to time,
as if trying to remember something.
“Have you lost anything?” inquired Mr. Leeds.
“The mirrors, Mister, where are the mirrors?”
“I don’t know where yours are—mine are at the hotel. Do you want to
look at yourself? You’re somewhat pale and excited.”
Many laughed, in spite of their weird impressions, on seeing the
jesting coolness of the American, while Ben-Zayb retired, quite
abashed, to his seat, muttering, “It can’t be. You’ll see that he
doesn’t do it without mirrors. The table will have to be changed
later.”
Mr. Leeds placed the cloth on the table again and turning toward his
illustrious audience, asked them, “Are you satisfied? May we begin?”
“Hurry up! How cold-blooded he is!” said the widow.
“Then, ladies and gentlemen, take your seats and get your questions
ready.”
Mr. Leeds disappeared through a doorway and in a few moments returned
with a black box of worm-eaten wood, covered with inscriptions in the
form of birds, beasts, and human heads.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began solemnly, “once having had occasion to
visit the great pyramid of Khufu, a Pharaoh of the fourth dynasty, I
chanced upon a sarcophagus of red granite in a forgotten chamber. My
joy was great, for I thought that I had found a royal mummy, but what
was my disappointment on opening the coffin, at the cost of infinite
labor, to find nothing more than this box, which you may examine.”
He handed the box to those in the front row. Padre Camorra drew back in
loathing, Padre Salvi looked at it closely as if he enjoyed sepulchral
things, Padre Irene smiled a knowing smile, Don Custodio affected
gravity and disdain, while Ben-Zayb hunted for his mirrors—there they
must be, for it was a question of mirrors.
“It smells like a corpse,” observed one lady, fanning herself
furiously. “Ugh!”
“It smells of forty centuries,” remarked some one with emphasis.
Ben-Zayb forgot about his mirrors to discover who had made this remark.
It was a military official who had read the history of Napoleon.
Ben-Zayb felt jealous and to utter another epigram that might annoy
Padre Camorra a little said, “It smells of the Church.”
“This box, ladies and gentlemen,” continued the American, “contained a
handful of ashes and a piece of papyrus on which were written some
words. Examine them yourselves, but I beg of you not to breathe
heavily, because if any of the dust is lost my sphinx will appear in a
mutilated condition.”
The humbug, described with such seriousness and conviction, was
gradually having its effect, so much so that when the box was passed
around, no one dared to breathe. Padre Camorra, who had so often
depicted from the pulpit of Tiani the torments and sufferings of hell,
while he laughed in his sleeves at the terrified looks of the sinners,
held his nose, and Padre Salvi—the same Padre Salvi who had on All
Souls’ Day prepared a phantasmagoria of the souls in purgatory with
flames and transparencies illuminated with alcohol lamps and covered
with tinsel, on the high altar of the church in a suburb, in order to
get alms and orders for masses—the lean and taciturn Padre Salvi held
his breath and gazed suspiciously at that handful of ashes.
“Memento, homo, quia pulvis es!” muttered Padre Irene with a smile.
“Pish!” sneered Ben-Zayb—the same thought had occurred to him, and the
Canon had taken the words out of his mouth.
“Not knowing what to do,” resumed Mr. Leeds, closing the box carefully,
“I examined the papyrus and discovered two words whose meaning was
unknown to me. I deciphered them, and tried to pronounce them aloud.
Scarcely had I uttered the first word when I felt the box slipping from
my hands, as if pressed down by an enormous weight, and it glided along
the floor, whence I vainly endeavored to remove it. But my surprise was
converted into terror when it opened and I found within a human head
that stared at me fixedly. Paralyzed with fright and uncertain what to
do in the presence of such a phenomenon, I remained for a time
stupefied, trembling like a person poisoned with mercury, but after a
while recovered myself and, thinking that it was a vain illusion, tried
to divert my attention by reading the second word. Hardly had I
pronounced it when the box closed, the head disappeared, and in its
place I again found the handful of ashes. Without suspecting it I had
discovered the two most potent words in nature, the words of creation
and destruction, of life and of death!”
He paused for a few moments to note the effect of his story, then with
grave and measured steps approached the table and placed the mysterious
box upon it.
“The cloth, Mister!” exclaimed the incorrigible Ben-Zayb.
“Why not?” rejoined Mr. Leeds, very complaisantly.
Lifting the box with his right hand, he caught up the cloth with his
left, completely exposing the table sustained by its three legs. Again
he placed the box upon the center and with great gravity turned to his
audience.
“Here’s what I want to see,” said Ben-Zayb to his neighbor. “You notice
how he makes some excuse.”