An Eagle Flight
Copyright© 2024 by José Rizal
The Eve of the Fête.
It is the 10th of November, the eve of the fête. 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 piña 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 kasamà, 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 alférez 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-pô; 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 Dámaso?”
“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, Señor 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 Señor R——. I direct the work. Yes, señor, 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 Señor 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 Señor Ibarra will have nothing left to desire.”
The man smiled still, and Señor 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 fête, 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 fête 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 Crisóstomo’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.”
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