The Reign of Greed
The first professor returned his greeting coldly, and winked to
Basilio, as he said to him, “Now I know that Capitan Tiago smells like
a corpse—the crows and vultures have been gathering around him.” So
saying, he went inside.
Somewhat calmed, Basilio now ventured to inquire for more details, but
all that he could learn was that pasquinades had been found on the
doors of the University, and that the Vice-Rector had ordered them to
be taken down and sent to the Civil Government. It was said that they
were filled with threats of assassination, invasion, and other
braggadocio.
The students made their comments on the affair. Their information came
from the janitor, who had it from a servant in Santo Tomas, who had it
from an usher. They prognosticated future suspensions and
imprisonments, even indicating who were to be the victims—naturally the
members of the association.
Basilio then recalled Simoun’s words: “The day in which they can get
rid of you, you will not complete your course.”
“Could he have known anything?” he asked himself. “We’ll see who is the
most powerful.”
Recovering his serenity, he went on toward the University, to learn
what attitude it behooved him to take and at the same time to see about
his licentiateship. He passed along Calle Legazpi, then down through
Beaterio, and upon arriving at the corner of this street and Calle
Solana saw that something important must indeed have happened. Instead
of the former lively, chattering groups on the sidewalks were to be
seen civil-guards making the students move on, and these latter issuing
from the University silent, some gloomy, some agitated, to stand off at
a distance or make their way home.
The first acquaintance he met was Sandoval, but Basilio called to him
in vain. He seemed to have been smitten deaf. “Effect of fear on the
gastro-intestinal juices,” thought Basilio.
Later he met Tadeo, who wore a Christmas face—at last that eternal
holiday seemed to be realized.
“What has happened, Tadeo?”
“We’ll have no school, at least for a week, old man! Sublime!
Magnificent!” He rubbed his hands in glee.
“But what has happened?”
“They’re going to arrest all of us in the association.”
“And are you glad of that?”
“There’ll be no school, there’ll be no school!” He moved away almost
bursting with joy.
Basilio saw Juanito Pelaez approaching, pale and suspicious. This time
his hump had reached its maximum, so great was his haste to get away.
He had been one of the most active promoters of the association while
things were running smoothly.
“Eh, Pelaez, what’s happened?”
“Nothing, I know nothing. I didn’t have anything to do with it,” he
responded nervously. “I was always telling you that these things were
quixotisms. It’s the truth, you know I’ve said so to you?”
Basilio did not remember whether he had said so or not, but to humor
him replied, “Yes, man, but what’s happened?”
“It’s the truth, isn’t it? Look, you’re a witness: I’ve always been
opposed—you’re a witness, don’t forget it!”
“Yes, man, but what’s going on?”
“Listen, you’re a witness! I’ve never had anything to do with the
members of the association, except to give them advice. You’re not
going to deny it now. Be careful, won’t you?”
“No, no, I won’t deny it, but for goodness’ sake, what has happened?”
But Juanito was already far away. He had caught a glimpse of a guard
approaching and feared arrest.
Basilio then went on toward the University to see if perhaps the
secretary’s office might be open and if he could glean any further
news. The office was closed, but there was an extraordinary commotion
in the building. Hurrying up and down the stairways were friars, army
officers, private persons, old lawyers and doctors, there doubtless to
offer their services to the endangered cause.
At a distance he saw his friend Isagani, pale and agitated, but radiant
with youthful ardor, haranguing some fellow students with his voice
raised as though he cared little that he be heard by everybody.
“It seems preposterous, gentlemen, it seems unreal, that an incident so
insignificant should scatter us and send us into flight like sparrows
at whom a scarecrow has been shaken! But is this the first time that
students have gone to prison for the sake of liberty? Where are those
who have died, those who have been shot? Would you apostatize now?”
“But who can the fool be that wrote such pasquinades?” demanded an
indignant listener.
“What does that matter to us?” rejoined Isagani. “We don’t have to find
out, let them find out! Before we know how they are drawn up, we have
no need to make any show of agreement at a time like this. There where
the danger is, there must we hasten, because honor is there! If what
the pasquinades say is compatible with our dignity and our feelings, be
he who he may that wrote them, he has done well, and we ought to be
grateful to him and hasten to add our signatures to his! If they are
unworthy of us, our conduct and our consciences will in themselves
protest and defend us from every accusation!”
Upon hearing such talk, Basilio, although he liked Isagani very much,
turned and left. He had to go to Makaraig’s house to see about the
loan.
Near the house of the wealthy student he observed whisperings and
mysterious signals among the neighbors, but not comprehending what they
meant, continued serenely on his way and entered the doorway. Two
guards advanced and asked him what he wanted. Basilio realized that he
had made a bad move, but he could not now retreat.
“I’ve come to see my friend Makaraig,” he replied calmly.
The guards looked at each other. “Wait here,” one of them said to him.
“Wait till the corporal comes down.”
Basilio bit his lips and Simoun’s words again recurred to him. Had they
come to arrest Makaraig?—was his thought, but he dared not give it
utterance. He did not have to wait long, for in a few moments Makaraig
came down, talking pleasantly with the corporal. The two were preceded
by a warrant officer.
“What, you too, Basilio?” he asked.
“I came to see you—”
“Noble conduct!” exclaimed Makaraig laughing. “In time of calm, you
avoid us.”
The corporal asked Basilio his name, then scanned a list. “Medical
student, Calle Anloague?” he asked.
Basilio bit his lip.
“You’ve saved us a trip,” added the corporal, placing his hand on the
youth’s shoulder. “You’re under arrest!”
“What, I also?”
Makaraig burst out into laughter.
“Don’t worry, friend. Let’s get into the carriage, while I tell you
about the supper last night.”
With a graceful gesture, as though he were in his own house, he invited
the warrant officer and the corporal to enter the carriage that waited
at the door.
“To the Civil Government!” he ordered the cochero.
Now that Basilio had again regained his composure, he told Makaraig the
object of his visit. The rich student did not wait for him to finish,
but seized his hand. “Count on me, count on me, and to the festivities
celebrating our graduation we’ll invite these gentlemen,” he said,
indicating the corporal and the warrant officer.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE FRIAR AND THE FILIPINO
Vox populi, vox Dei
We left Isagani haranguing his friends. In the midst of his enthusiasm
an usher approached him to say that Padre Fernandez, one of the higher
professors, wished to talk with him.
Isagani’s face fell. Padre Fernandez was a person greatly respected by
him, being the one always excepted by him whenever the friars were
attacked.
“What does Padre Fernandez want?” he inquired.
The usher shrugged his shoulders and Isagani reluctantly followed him.
Padre Fernandez, the friar whom we met in Los Baños, was waiting in his
cell, grave and sad, with his brows knitted as if he were in deep
thought. He arose as Isagani entered, shook hands with him, and closed
the door. Then he began to pace from one end of the room to the other.
Isagani stood waiting for him to speak.
“Señor Isagani,” he began at length with some emotion, “from the window
I’ve heard you speaking, for though I am a consumptive I have good
ears, and I want to talk with you. I have always liked the young men
who express themselves clearly and have their own way of thinking and
acting, no matter that their ideas may differ from mine. You young men,
from what I have heard, had a supper last night. Don’t excuse
yourself—”
“I don’t intend to excuse myself!” interrupted Isagani.
“So much the better—it shows that you accept the consequences of your
actions. Besides, you would do ill in retracting, and I don’t blame
you, I take no notice of what may have been said there last night, I
don’t accuse you, because after all you’re free to say of the
Dominicans what seems best to you, you are not a pupil of ours—only
this year have we had the pleasure of having you, and we shall probably
not have you longer. Don’t think that I’m going to invoke
considerations of gratitude; no, I’m not going to waste my time in
stupid vulgarisms. I’ve had you summoned here because I believe that
you are one of the few students who act from conviction, and, as I like
men of conviction, I’m going to explain myself to Señor Isagani.”
Padre Fernandez paused, then continued his walk with bowed head, his
gaze riveted on the floor.
“You may sit down, if you wish,” he remarked. “It’s a habit of mine to
walk about while talking, because my ideas come better then.”
Isagani remained standing, with his head erect, waiting for the
professor to get to the point of the matter.
“For more than eight years I have been a professor here,” resumed Padre
Fernandez, still continuing to pace back and forth, “and in that time
I’ve known and dealt with more than twenty-five hundred students. I’ve
taught them, I’ve tried to educate them, I’ve tried to inculcate in
them principles of justice and of dignity, and yet in these days when
there is so much murmuring against us I’ve not seen one who has the
temerity to maintain his accusations when he finds himself in the
presence of a friar, not even aloud in the presence of any numbers.
Young men there are who behind our backs calumniate us and before us
kiss our hands, with a base smile begging kind looks from us! Bah! What
do you wish that we should do with such creatures?”
“The fault is not all theirs, Padre,” replied Isagani. “The fault lies
partly with those who have taught them to be hypocrites, with those who
have tyrannized over freedom of thought and freedom of speech. Here
every independent thought, every word that is not an echo of the will
of those in power, is characterized as filibusterism, and you know well
enough what that means. A fool would he be who to please himself would
say aloud what he thinks, who would lay himself liable to suffer
persecution!”
“What persecution have you had to suffer?” asked Padre Fernandez,
raising his head. “Haven’t I let you express yourself freely in my
class? Nevertheless, you are an exception that, if what you say is
true, I must correct, so as to make the rule as general as possible and
thus avoid setting a bad example.”
Isagani smiled. “I thank you, but I will not discuss with you whether I
am an exception. I will accept your qualification so that you may
accept mine: you also are an exception, and as here we are not going to
talk about exceptions, nor plead for ourselves, at least, I mean, I’m
not, I beg of my professor to change the course of the conversation.”
In spite of his liberal principles, Padre Fernandez raised his head and
stared in surprise at Isagani. That young man was more independent than
he had thought—although he called him professor, in reality he was
dealing with him as an equal, since he allowed himself to offer