In the latter part of October, Don Santiago de los Santos, popularly known as Captain Tiago, gave a dinner. Though, contrary to his custom, he had not announced it until the afternoon of the day on which it was to occur, the dinner became at once the absorbing topic of conversation in Binondo, in the other suburbs of Manila, and even in the walled city. Captain Tiago was generally considered a most liberal man, and his house, like his country, shut its doors to no one, whether bent on pleasure or on the development of some new and daring scheme.  
The dinner was given in the captain’s house in Analoague street. The building is of ordinary size, of the style of architecture common to the country, and is situated on that arm of the Pasig called by some Binondo Creek. This, like all the streams in Manila, satisfies a multitude of needs. It serves for bathing, mortar-mixing, laundering, fishing, means of transportation and communication, and even for drinking water, when the Chinese water-carriers find it convenient to use it for that purpose. Although the most important artery of the busiest part of the town, where the roar of commerce is loudest and traffic most congested, the stream is, for a distance of a mile, crossed by only one wooden bridge. During six months of the year, one end of this bridge is out of order, and the other end is impassable during the remaining time.
 
The house is low and somewhat out of plumb. No one, [2]however, knows whether the faulty lines of the building are due to a defect in the sight of the architect who constructed it, or whether they are the result of earthquakes and hurricanes.
 
A wide staircase, with green balustrades and carpeted here and there in spots, leads from the zaguan, or tiled entrance hall, to the second story of the house. On either side of this staircase is a row of flower-pots and vases, placed upon chinaware pedestals, brilliant in coloring and fantastic in design. Upstairs, we enter a spacious hall, which is, in these islands, called caida. This serves to-night for the dining hall. In the middle of the room is a large table, profusely and richly ornamented, fairly groaning under the weight of delicacies.
 
In direct contrast to these worldly preparations are the motley colored religious pictures on the walls—such subjects as “Purgatory,” “Hell,” “The Last Judgment,” “The Death of the Just,” and “The Death of the Sinner.” Below these, in a beautiful renaissance frame, is a large, curious linen engraving of two old ladies. The picture bears the inscription “Our Lady of Peace, Propitious to Travellers, Venerated in Antipolo, Visiting in the Guise of a Beggar the Pious Wife of the Famous Captain Inés in Her Sickness.” In the side of the room toward the river, Captain Tiago has arranged fantastic wooden arches, half Chinese, half European, through which one can pass to the roof which covers part of the first story. This roof serves as a veranda, and has been illuminated with Chinese lanterns in many colors and made into a pretty little arbor or garden. The sala or principal room of the house, where the guests assembled is resplendent with colossal mirrors and brilliant chandeliers, and, upon a platform of pine, is a costly piano of the finest workmanship.
 
People almost filled this room, the men keeping on one side and the women on the other, as though they were in a Catholic church or a synagogue. Among the women were a number of young girls, both native and Spanish. Occasionally one of them forgot herself and yawned, but immediately sought to conceal it by covering her mouth with her fan. Conversation was carried [3]on in a low voice and died away in vague mono-syllables, like the indistinct noises heard by night in a large mansion.
 
An elderly woman with a kindly face, a cousin of Captain Tiago, received the ladies. She spoke Spanish regardless of all the grammatical rules, and her courtesies consisted in offering to the Spanish ladies cigarettes and betel nut (neither of which they use) and in kissing the hands of the native women after the manner of the friars. Finally the poor old lady was completely exhausted, and, taking advantage of a distant crash occasioned by the breaking of a plate, hurried off precipitately to investigate, murmuring: “Jesús! Just wait, you good-for-nothings!”
 
Among the men there was somewhat more animation. In one corner of the room were some cadets, who chatted with some show of interest, but in a low voice. From time to time they surveyed the crowd and indicated to each other different persons, meanwhile laughing more or less affectedly.
 
The only people who appeared to be really enjoying themselves were two friars, two citizens and an officer of the army who formed a group around a small table, on which were bottles of wine and English biscuits. The officer was old, tall and sunburnt, and looked as the Duke of Alva might have looked, had he been reduced to a command in the civil guard. He said little, but what he did say was short and to the point. One of the friars was a young Dominican, handsome and dressed with extreme nicety. He wore gold mounted spectacles and preserved the extreme gravity of youth. The other friar, however, who was a Franciscan, talked a great deal and gesticulated even more. Although his hair was getting gray, he seemed to be well preserved and in robust health. His splendid figure, keen glance, square jaw and herculean form gave him the appearance of a Roman patrician in disguise. He was gay and talked briskly, like one who is not afraid to speak out. Brusque though his words might be, his merry laugh removed any disagreeable impression.
 
As to the citizens, one of them was small in stature [4]and wore a black beard, his most noticeable feature being his large nose—so large that you could scarcely believe that it was all his own. The other was a young blonde, apparently a recent arrival in the country. The latter was carrying on a lively discussion with the Franciscan.
 
“You will see,” said the friar, “when you have been in the country a few months, and will be convinced that what I say is right. It is one thing to govern in Madrid and another to rule in the Philippines.”
 
“But——”
 
“I, for example,” continued Father Dámaso, raising his voice to prevent the other from speaking, “I, who can point to my twenty-three years of existence on bananas and rice, can speak with some authority on this subject. Do not come to me with theories or arguments, for I know the native. Remember, that when I came to this country, I was sent to a parish, small and largely devoted to agriculture. I did not understand Tagalog very well, but I received the confessions of the women and we managed to understand each other. In fact, they came to think so much of me that three years afterward, when I was sent to another and larger town, where a vacancy had been created by the death of the native parish priest, all the women were in tears. They overwhelmed me with presents, they saw me off with bands of music——”
 
“But this only shows——”
 
“Wait, wait! Do not be in a hurry! My successor remained there a still shorter time, but when he left there were more people to see him off, more tears shed, and more music played, although he had treated the people worse than I, and had raised the parish dues to a sum almost double the amount I had exacted.”
 
“But allow me——”
 
“Furthermore, I was twenty years in the town of San Diego and it was only a few months ago—that—that I left. Twenty years! Surely any one will admit that twenty years is time enough to get acquainted with a town. There were six thousand people in San Diego, and I knew every one of them as if he were my own [5]child. I knew even the private affairs of them all; I knew in what way this man was ‘crooked,’ where the shoe pinched that one, what slips every girl had made and with whom, and who was the true father of each child, for I received all of their confessions and they always confessed scrupulously. I can prove what I say by Santiago, our host, for he has considerable property in that town, and it was there that we became friends. Well, then! This will show you what sort of people the natives are: when I went away, only a few old women and some lay brothers saw me off. And that, after I had been there twenty years! Don’t you see that this proves beyond a doubt that all the reforms attempted by the Ministers of the Government in Madrid are perfectly absurd?”
 
It was now the young man’s turn to be perplexed. The lieutenant, who had been listening to the argument, knit his brows. The little man with the black beard made ready to combat or support Father Dámaso’s arguments, while the Dominican was content to remain entirely neutral.
 
“But do you believe——,” the young man finally asked in a curious mood, and looking straight at the friar.
 
“Do I believe it? As I do the Gospel! The native is so indolent!”
 
“Ah! Pardon me for interrupting you,” said the young blonde, lowering his voice and drawing his chair closer, “but you have spoken a word that arouses my interest. Is this indolence an inherent characteristic of the native, or is it true, as a foreign traveller has said in speaking of a country whose inhabitants are of the same race as these, that this indolence is only a fabrication to excuse our own laziness, our backwardness and the faults of our celestial system?”
 
“Bah! That is nothing but envy! Ask Se?or Laruja, who knows this country very well, whether the native has his equal in the world for indolence and ignorance.”
 
“It is a fact,” replied the little man referred to, “that [6]nowhere in the world can any one be found more indolent than the native. Positively nowhere!”
 
“Nor more vicious and ungrateful!”
 
“Nor with less education!”
 
Somewhat uneasy, the blonde man began to glance about the room. “Gentlemen,” he said in a low voice, “I believe that we are in the house of a native, and these young ladies may——”
 
“Bah! Don’t be so sensitive. How long have you been in the country?”
 
“Four days,” answered the young man somewhat ruffled.
 
“Did you come here as an employee?”
 
“No, sir. I came on my own account in order to become acquainted with the country.”
 
“Man, what a rare bird you are!” exclaimed Father Dámaso, looking at him with curiosity. “To come here on your own account for such foolish ends! What a phenomenon! And when so many books have been written about this country——”
 
Then, striking the arm of his chair with sudden violence, he exclaimed: “The country is being lost; it is lost already. The governing power supports heretics against the ministers of God.”
 
“What do you mean?” again asked the lieutenant, half rising from his chair.
 
“What do I mean?” repeated Father Dámaso, again raising his voice, and facing the lieutenant. “I mean what I say. I mean that, when a priest turns away the corpse of a heretic from his cemetery, no one, not even the King himself, has the right to interfere, and still less to punish. And yet a general, a miserable little general——”
 
“Father! His Excellency is the vice-regal representative of His Majesty the King!” exclaimed the officer, rising to his feet.
 
“What do I care for His Excellency, or for any of your vice-regal representatives!” answered the Franciscan, rising in his turn. “In any other time than the present, he would have been thrown down stairs in the same way as the religious corporations treated the sacrilegious [7]governor Bustamente in his time. Those were the days when there was faith!”
 
“I’ll tell you right here that I don’t allow any—His Excellency represents His Majesty the King!”
 
“I don’t care whether he is king or rogue. For us there is no king other than the true——”
 
“Stop this immediately!” shouted the lieutenant in a threatening manner, and as though he were commanding his own soldiers. “Take back what you have said, or to-morrow I shall inform His Excellency.”
 
“Go and tell him at once! Go tell him!” answered Father Dámaso, sarcastically, at the same time approaching the lieutenant with his fists doubled. “Don’t you think for a moment that, because I wear the dress of a monk, I’m not a man. Hurry! Go tell him! I’ll lend you my carriage.”
 
The discussion began to grow ridiculous as the speakers became more heated, but, at this point, fortunately, the Dominican interfered.
 
“Gentlemen!” he said in a tone of authority, and with that nasal twang which is so characteristic of the friars, “there is no reason why you should thus confuse matters or take offense where it is not intended. We should distinguish between what Father Dámaso says as a man, and what he says as a priest. Whatever he may say as a priest cannot be offensive, for the words of a priest are understood to be absolutely true.”
 
“But I understand what his motives are, Father Sibyla!” interrupted the lieutenant, who saw that he would be drawn into a net of such fine distinction that, if he allowed it to go on, Father Dámaso would get off scot free. “I know very well what his motives are, and Your Reverence will also perceive them. During the absence of Father Dámaso from San Diego, his assistant buried the body of a very worthy person. Yes, sir, an extremely worthy person! I had known the man from time to time and had often been his guest. What if he never had been to confession? I do not confess, either. To say that he committed suicide is a lie, a slander. A man such as he, with a son whose success and love were more than all the world to him; a man [8]who believed in God, who fulfilled his duty to society, who was honorable and just—such a man does not commit suicide. That is what I say! I am not telling you all that I think about this matter, and Your Reverence should be very thankful that I restrain myself.”
 
Turning his back on the Franciscan, he continued: “As I was saying, this priest, when he returned to the town, after maltreating his coadjutor, ordered that the man’s body be taken up and thrown out of the cemetery, to be buried I know not where. The town of San Diego was too cowardly to protest, though, in fact, very few people knew much about the matter. The dead man had no relatives in the town and his only son was in Europe. His Excellency, however, learned about the affair, and being at heart upright and just, he ordered that the priest be punished. As a result, Father Dámaso was transferred to another but better town. That is all there was to it. Now you can make all the distinctions you like.”
 
So saying, he left the group.
 
“I am very sorry to have touched upon so delicate a subject,” said Father Sibyla, “but, after all, if the change from one town to another was to your advantage——”
 
“How could it be to my advantage? How about all the things that I lost?” interrupted Father Dámaso, fairly boiling over with rage.
 
“Good evening, gentlemen! Good evening, Father!” said Captain Santiago, who at that instant entered the room, leading a youth by the hand. On saluting his guests in this manner, he kissed the hands of the priests, who, by the way, forgot to give him their blessing. The Dominican took off his gold-rimmed spectacles in order to examine the new arrival at better advantage, while Father Dámaso, turning pale at the sight, stared at the youth with eyes wide open.
 
“I have the honor of presenting to you Don Crisostomo Ibarra, the son of my deceased friend,” said Captain Tiago. “The young man has just arrived from Europe, and I have been to meet him.” At the mere mention of the name, exclamations were heard in all parts of the room. The lieutenant, forgetting himself [9]entirely, did not stop to salute his host, but at once approached the young man and surveyed him from head to foot. The youth exchanged the usual greetings with those who had gathered around him. He showed no striking peculiarity, except in his sombre dress, which was in deep contrast with that of the other persons present. His athletic build, his appearance, and every movement he made showed, however, that a fine mind and a healthy body had both been highly developed. You could see from his frank and vivacious face that he had Spanish blood in his veins. Although his hair, eyes and complexion were dark, his cheeks had a slight color, due, no doubt, to residence in cold countries.
 
“What!” he exclaimed with glad surprise, “the parish priest of my own town! Father Dámaso, my father’s intimate friend!” Every one in the room looked at the Franciscan, but the latter made no motion.
 
“You must excuse me, if I have made a mistake,” added Ibarra, somewhat in doubt because of the apathy of the friar.
 
“You have made no mistake,” the priest finally answered in a strained voice, “but your father was never an intimate friend of mine.”
 
Ibarra slowly withdrew the hand which he had offered, looking at the friar with great surprise. As he turned about, he came face to face with the lieutenant just approaching.
 
“My boy, are you the son of Don Rafael Ibarra?”
 
The young man bowed in acquiescence. Father Dámaso settled back into his arm-chair and fixed his eyes upon the lieutenant.
 
“Welcome to your country! May you be more happy in it than was your father!” exclaimed the officer in a trembling voice. “I had many dealings with your father and I knew him well, and I can say that he was one of the most worthy and honorable men in the Philippines.”
 
“Sir,” replied Ibarra with emotion, “your praise of my father puts me in doubt as to his fate. Even now I, his own son, am ignorant of it all.”
 
The eyes of the old man filled with tears. He turned [10]and hurriedly withdrew. Ibarra found himself standing alone in the middle of the room. His host had disappeared, and he turned to a group of gentlemen, who, as soon as they saw him coming, formed a semicircle to receive him.
 
“Gentlemen,” he said, “in Germany, when a stranger attends any social function and there is no one present to introduce him, it is allowable for him to introduce himself. Permit me to avail myself of this practice. Gentlemen, my name is Juan Crisostomo Ibarra y Magsalin.” The others gave their names in turn, of which the most were comparatively unknown.
 
“My name is A——a,” said one of the young men, bowing stiffly.
 
“Then, perhaps, I have the honor of addressing the poet whose works have kept up my enthusiasm for my country? I have been told that you have stopped writing, but no one has told me why.”
 
“Why? Because there is no use in invoking the muses for false and foolish ends. A case has been made out against one man for having put into verse a true story of Pero Grullo. I am not going to get myself into a similar scrape. They may call me a poet, but they shall not call me a fool.”
 
“And can you not tell us what that true story was?”
 
“Yes. The poet said that the son of a lion is also a lion, and for saying this he narrowly escaped being banished.”
 
“Dinner is ready,” announced a waiter who had been borrowed from the Cáfé Campa?a. The guests began to file into the dining room, not, however, without many sighs, and even some prayers among the women, especially the natives, that the dreaded affair would soon be over.