Noli Me Tangere

[mrsartis 10]

chapters 9-13

CHAPTER IX

Local Affairs

Ibarra had not been mistaken about the occupant of the victoria,

for it was indeed Padre Damaso, and he was on his way to the house

which the youth had just left.

"Where are you going?" asked the friar of Maria Clara and Aunt Isabel,

who were about to enter a silver-mounted carriage. In the midst of

his preoccupation Padre Damaso stroked the maiden's cheek lightly.

"To the convent to get my things," answered the latter.

"Ahaa! Aha! We'll see who's stronger, we'll see," muttered the friar

abstractedly, as with bowed head and slow step he turned to the

stairway, leaving the two women not a little amazed.

"He must have a sermon to preach and is memorizing it," commented

Aunt Isabel. "Get in, Maria, or we'll be late."

Whether or not Padre Damaso was preparing a sermon we cannot say,

but it is certain that some grave matter filled his mind, for he did

not extend his hand to Capitan Tiago, who had almost to get down on

his knees to kiss it.

"Santiago," said the friar at once, "I have an important matter to

talk to you about. Let's go into your office."

Capitan Tiago began to feel uneasy, so much so that he did not know

what to say; but he obeyed, following the heavy figure of the priest,

who closed the door behind him.

While they confer in secret, let us learn what Fray Sibyla has

been doing. The astute Dominican is not at the rectory, for very

soon after celebrating mass he had gone to the convent of his order,

situated just inside the gate of Isabel II, or of Magellan, according

to what family happened to be reigning in Madrid. Without paying any

attention to the rich odor of chocolate, or to the rattle of boxes

and coins which came from the treasury, and scarcely acknowledging

the respectful and deferential salute of the procurator-brother,

he entered, passed along several corridors, and knocked at a door.

"Come in," sighed a weak voice.

"May God restore health to your Reverence," was the young Dominican's

greeting as he entered.

Seated in a large armchair was an aged priest, wasted and rather

sallow, like the saints that Rivera painted. His eyes were sunken in

their hollow sockets, over which his heavy eyebrows were almost always

contracted, thus accentuating their brilliant gleam. Padre Sibyla,

with his arms crossed under the venerable scapulary of St. Dominic,

gazed at him feelingly, then bowed his head and waited in silence.

"Ah," sighed the old man, "they advise an operation, an operation,

Hernando, at my age! This country, O this terrible country! Take

warning from my ease, Hernando!"

Fray Sibyla raised his eyes slowly and fixed them on the sick man's

face. "What has your Reverence decided to do?" he asked.

"To die! Ah, what else can I do? I am suffering too much, but--I

have made many suffer, I am paying my debt! And how are you? What

has brought you here?"

"I've come to talk about the business which you committed to my care."

"Ah! What about it?"

"Pish!" answered the young man disgustedly, as he seated himself

and turned away his face with a contemptuous expression, "They've

been telling us fairy tales. Young Ibarra is a youth of discernment;

he doesn't seem to be a fool, but I believe that he is a good lad."

"You believe so?"

"Hostilities began last night."

"Already? How?"

Fray Sibyla then recounted briefly what had taken place between Padre

Damaso and Ibarra. "Besides," he said in conclusion, "the young man

is going to marry Capitan Tiago's daughter, who was educated in the

college of our Sisterhood. He's rich, and won't care to make enemies

and to run the risk of ruining his fortune and his happiness."

The sick man nodded in agreement. "Yes, I think as you do. With a wife

like that and such a father-in-law, we'll own him body and soul. If

not, so much the better for him to declare himself an enemy of ours."

Fray Sibyla looked at the old man in surprise.

"For the good of our holy Order, I mean, of course," he added,

breathing heavily. "I prefer open attacks to the silly praises and

flatteries of friends, which are really paid for."

"Does your Reverence think--"

The old man regarded him sadly. "Keep it clearly before you," he

answered, gasping for breath. "Our power will last as long as it

is believed in. If they attack us, the government will say, 'They

attack them because they see in them an obstacle to their liberty,

so then let us preserve them.'"

"But if it should listen to them? Sometimes the government--"

"It will not listen!"

"Nevertheless, if, led on by cupidity, it should come to wish for

itself what we are taking in--if there should be some bold and

daring one--"

"Then woe unto that one!"

Both remained silent for a time, then the sick man continued:

"Besides, we need their attacks, to keep us awake; that makes us see

our weaknesses so that we may remedy them. Exaggerated flattery will

deceive us and put us to sleep, while outside our walls we shall be

laughed at, and the day in which we become an object of ridicule, we

shall fall as we fell in Europe. Money will not flow into our churches,

no one will buy our scapularies or girdles or anything else, and when

we cease to be rich we shall no longer be able to control consciences."

"But we shall always have our estates, our property."

"All will be lost as we lost them in Europe! And the worst of it is

that we are working toward our own ruin. For example, this unrestrained

eagerness to raise arbitrarily the rents on our lands each year,

this eagerness which I have so vainly combated in all the chapters,

this will ruin us! The native sees himself obliged to purchase farms

in other places, which bring him as good returns as ours, or better. I

fear that we are already on the decline; _quos vult perdere Jupiter

dementat prius_. [49] For this reason we should not increase our

burden; the people are already murmuring. You have decided well:

let us leave the others to settle their accounts in that quarter;

let us preserve the prestige that remains to us, and as we shall soon

appear before God, let us wash our hands of it--and may the God of

mercy have pity on our weakness!"

"So your Reverence thinks that the rent or tax--"

"Let's not talk any more about money," interrupted the sick man with

signs of disgust. "You say that the lieutenant threatened to Padre

Damaso that--"

"Yes, Padre," broke in Fray Sibyla with a faint smile, "but this

morning I saw him and he told me that he was sorry for what occurred

last night, that the sherry had gone to his head, and that he believed

that Padre Damaso was in the same condition. 'And your threat?' I

asked him jokingly. 'Padre,' he answered me, 'I know how to keep my

word when my honor is affected, but I am not nor have ever been an

informer--for that reason I wear only two stars.'"

After they had conversed a while longer on unimportant subjects,

Fray Sibyla took his departure.

It was true that the lieutenant had not gone to the Palace, but the

Captain-General heard what had occurred. While talking with some

of his aides about the allusions that the Manila newspapers were

making to him under the names of comets and celestial apparitions,

one of them told him about the affair of Padre Damaso, with a somewhat

heightened coloring although substantially correct as to matter.

"From whom did you learn this?" asked his Excellency, smiling.

"From Laruja, who was telling it this morning in the office."

The Captain-General again smiled and said: "A woman or a friar can't

insult one. I contemplate living in peace for the time that I shall

remain in this country and I don't want any more quarrels with men who

wear skirts. Besides, I've learned that the Provincial has scoffed

at my orders. I asked for the removal of this friar as a punishment

and they transferred him to a better town 'monkish tricks,' as we

say in Spain."

But when his Excellency found himself alone he stopped smiling. "Ah,

if this people were not so stupid, I would put a curb on their

Reverences," he sighed to himself. "But every people deserves its fate,

so let's do as everybody else does."

Capitan Tiago, meanwhile, had concluded his interview with Padre

Damaso, or rather, to speak more exactly, Padre Damaso had concluded

with him.

"So now you are warned!" said the Franciscan on leaving. "All this

could have been avoided if you had consulted me beforehand, if you had

not lied when I asked you. Try not to play any more foolish tricks,

and trust your protector."

Capitan Tiago walked up and down the sala a few times, meditating

and sighing. Suddenly, as if a happy thought had occurred to him,

he ran to the oratory and extinguished the candles and the lamp that

had been lighted for Ibarra's safety. "The way is long and there's

yet time," he muttered.

CHAPTER X

The Town

Almost on the margin of the lake, in the midst of meadows and

paddy-fields, lies the town of San Diego. [50] From it sugar, rice,

coffee, and fruits are either exported or sold for a small part of

their value to the Chinese, who exploit the simplicity and vices of

the native farmers.

When on a clear day the boys ascend to the upper part of the church

tower, which is beautified by moss and creeping plants, they break

out into joyful exclamations at the beauty of the scene spread out

before them. In the midst of the clustering roofs of nipa, tiles,

corrugated iron, and palm leaves, separated by groves and gardens,

each one is able to discover his own home, his little nest. Everything

serves as a mark: a tree, that tamarind with its light foliage,

that coco palm laden with nuts, like the Astarte Genetrix, or the

Diana of Ephesus with her numerous breasts, a bending bamboo, an

areca palm, or a cross. Yonder is the river, a huge glassy serpent

sleeping on a green carpet, with rocks, scattered here and there

along its sandy channel, that break its current into ripples. There,

the bed is narrowed between high banks to which the gnarled trees

cling with bared roots; here, it becomes a gentle slope where the

stream widens and eddies about. Farther away, a small hut built on the

edge of the high bank seems to defy the winds, the heights and the

depths, presenting with its slender posts the appearance of a huge,

long-legged bird watching for a reptile to seize upon. Trunks of palm

or other trees with their bark still on them unite the banks by a

shaky and infirm foot-bridge which, if not a very secure crossing,

is nevertheless a wonderful contrivance for gymnastic exercises in

preserving one's balance, a thing not to be despised. The boys bathing

in the river are amused by the difficulties of the old woman crossing

with a basket on her head or by the antics of the old man who moves

tremblingly and loses his staff in the water.

But that which always attracts particular notice is what might be

called a peninsula of forest in the sea of cultivated fields. There

in that wood are century-old trees with hollow trunks, which die only

when their high tops are struck and set on fire by the lightning--and

it is said that the fire always checks itself and dies out in the same

spot. There are huge points of rock which time and nature are clothing

with velvet garments of moss. Layer after layer of dust settles in

the hollows, the rains beat it down, and the birds bring seeds. The

tropical vegetation spreads out luxuriantly in thickets and underbrush,

while curtains of interwoven vines hang from the branches of the trees

and twine about their roots or spread along the ground, as if Flora

were not yet satisfied but must place plant above plant. Mosses and

fungi live upon the cracked trunks, and orchids--graceful guests--twine

in loving embrace with the foliage of the hospitable trees.

Strange legends exist concerning this wood, which is held in awe by

the country folk. The most credible account, and therefore the one

least known and believed, seems to be this. When the town was still

a collection of miserable huts with the grass growing abundantly in

the so-called streets, at the time when the wild boar and deer roamed

about during the nights, there arrived in the place one day an old,

hollow-eyed Spaniard, who spoke Tagalog rather well. After looking

about and inspecting the land, he finally inquired for the owners of

this wood, in which there were hot springs. Some persons who claimed to

be such presented themselves, and the old man acquired it in exchange

for clothes, jewels, and a sum of money. Soon afterward he disappeared

mysteriously. The people thought that he had been spirited away,

when a bad odor from the neighboring wood attracted the attention of

some herdsmen. Tracing this, they found the decaying corpse of the

old Spaniard hanging from the branch of a balete tree. [51] In life

he had inspired fear by his deep, hollow voice, his sunken eyes, and

his mirthless laugh, but now, dead by his own act, he disturbed the

sleep of the women. Some threw the jewels into the river and burned the

clothes, and from the time that the corpse was buried at the foot of

the balete itself, no one willingly ventured near the spot. A belated

herdsman looking for some of his strayed charges told of lights that

he had seen there, and when some venturesome youths went to the place

they heard mournful cries. To win the smiles of his disdainful lady,

a forlorn lover agreed to spend the night there and in proof to wrap

around the trunk a long piece of rattan, but he died of a quick fever

that seized him the very next day. Stories and legends still cluster

about the place.

A few months after the finding of the old Spaniard's body there

appeared a youth, apparently a Spanish mestizo, who said that

he was the son of the deceased. He established himself in the

place and devoted his attention to agriculture, especially the

raising of indigo. Don Saturnino was a silent young man with a

violent disposition, even cruel at times, yet he was energetic and

industrious. He surrounded the grave of his father with a wall,

but visited it only at rare intervals. When he was along in years,

he married a young woman from Manila, and she became the mother of

Don Rafael, the father of Crisostomo. From his youth Don Rafael was a

favorite with the country people. The agricultural methods introduced

and encouraged by his father spread rapidly, new settlers poured in,

the Chinese came, and the settlement became a village with a native

priest. Later the village grew into a town, the priest died, and Fray

Damaso came.

All this time the tomb and the land around it remained

unmolested. Sometimes a crowd of boys armed with clubs and stones would

become bold enough to wander into the place to gather guavas, papayas,

lomboy, and other fruits, but it frequently happened that when their

sport was at its height, or while they gazed in awed silence at the

rotting piece of rope which still swung from the branch, stones would

fall, coming from they knew not where. Then with cries of "The old

man! The old man!" they would throw away fruit and clubs, jump from

the trees, and hurry between the rocks and through the thickets;

nor would they stop running until they were well out of the wood,

some pale and breathless, others weeping, and only a few laughing.

CHAPTER XI

The Rulers

Divide and rule.

(_The New Machiavelli._)

Who were the caciques of the town?

Don Rafael, when alive, even though he was the richest, owned more

land, and was the patron of nearly everybody, had not been one of

them. As he was modest and depreciated the value of his own deeds,

no faction in his favor had ever been formed in the town, and we

have already seen how the people all rose up against him when they

saw him hesitate upon being attacked.

Could it be Capitan Tiago? True it was that when he went there he

was received with an orchestra by his debtors, who banqueted him and

heaped gifts upon him. The finest fruits burdened his table and a

quarter of deer or wild boar was his share of the hunt. If he found

the horse of a debtor beautiful, half an hour afterwards it was in

his stable. All this was true, but they laughed at him behind his

back and in secret called him "Sacristan Tiago."

Perhaps it was the gobernadorcillo? [52] No, for he was only an

unhappy mortal who commanded not, but obeyed; who ordered not, but

was ordered; who drove not, but was driven. Nevertheless, he had

to answer to the alcalde for having commanded, ordered, and driven,

just as if he were the originator of everything. Yet be it said to

his credit that he had never presumed upon or usurped such honors,

which had cost him five thousand pesos and many humiliations. But

considering the income it brought him, it was cheap.

Well then, might it be God? Ah, the good God disturbed neither the

consciences nor the sleep of the inhabitants. At least, He did not

make them tremble, and if by chance He might have been mentioned in

a sermon, surely they would have sighed longingly, "Oh, that only

there were a God!" To the good Lord they paid little attention, as

the saints gave them enough to do. For those poor folk God had come

to be like those unfortunate monarchs who are surrounded by courtiers

to whom alone the people render homage.

San Diego was a kind of Rome: not the Rome of the time when the cunning

Romulus laid out its walls with a plow, nor of the later time when,

bathed in its own and others' blood, it dictated laws to the world--no,

it was a Rome of our own times with the difference that in place of

marble monuments and colosseums it had its monuments of sawali and its

cockpit of nipa. The curate was the Pope in the Vatican; the alferez

of the Civil Guard, the King of Italy on the Quirinal: all, it must be

understood, on a scale of nipa and bamboo. Here, as there, continual

quarreling went on, since each wished to be the master and considered

the other an intruder. Let us examine the characteristics of each.

Fray Bernardo Salvi was that silent young Franciscan of whom we

have spoken before. In his habits and manners he was quite different

from his brethren and even from his predecessor, the violent Padre

Damaso. He was thin and sickly, habitually pensive, strict in the

fulfilment of his religious duties, and careful of his good name. In

a month after his arrival nearly every one in the town had joined

the Venerable Tertiary Order, to the great distress of its rival,

the Society of the Holy Rosary. His soul leaped with joy to see about

each neck four or five scapularies and around each waist a knotted

girdle, and to behold the procession of corpses and ghosts in _guingon_

habits. The senior sacristan made a small fortune selling--or giving

away as alms, we should say--all things necessary for the salvation

of the soul and the warfare against the devil, as it is well known

that this spirit, which formerly had the temerity to contradict God

himself face to face and to doubt His words, as is related in the

holy book of Job, who carried our Lord Christ through the air as

afterwards in the Dark Ages he carried the ghosts, and continues,

according to report, to carry the _asuang_ of the Philippines, now

seems to have become so shamefaced that he cannot endure the sight of

a piece of painted cloth and that he fears the knots on a cord. But

all this proves nothing more than that there is progress on this side

also and that the devil is backward, or at least a conservative,

as are all who dwell in darkness. Otherwise, we must attribute to

him the weakness of a fifteen-year-old girl.

As we have said, Fray Salvi was very assiduous in the fulfilment of his

duties, too assiduous, the alferez thought. While he was preaching--he

was very fond of preaching--the doors of the church were closed,

wherein he was like Nero, who allowed no one to leave the theater while

he was singing. But the former did it for the salvation and the latter

for the corruption of souls. Fray Salvi rarely resorted to blows,

but was accustomed to punish every shortcoming of his subordinates

with fines. In this respect he was very different from Padre Damaso,

who had been accustomed to settle everything with his fists or a cane,

administering such chastisement with the greatest good-will. For this,

however, he should not be judged too harshly, as he was firm in the

belief that the Indian could be managed only by beating him, just

as was affirmed by a friar who knew enough to write books, and Padre

Damaso never disputed anything that he saw in print, a credulity of

which many might have reason to complain. Although Fray Salvi made

little use of violence, yet, as an old wiseacre of the town said,

what he lacked in quantity he made up in quality. But this should

not be counted against him, for the fasts and abstinences thinned his

blood and unstrung his nerves and, as the people said, the wind got

into his head. Thus it came about that it was not possible to learn

from the condition of the sacristans' backs whether the curate was

fasting or feasting.

The only rival of this spiritual power, with tendencies toward the

temporal, was, as we have said, the alferez: the only one, since the

women told how the devil himself would flee from the curate, because,

having one day dared to tempt him, he was caught, tied to a bedpost,

soundly whipped with a rope, and set at liberty only after nine

days. As a consequence, any one who after this would still be the

enemy of such a man, deserved to fall into worse repute than even

the weak and unwary devils.

But the alferez deserved his fate. His wife was an old Filipina of

abundant rouge and paint, known as Dona Consolacion--although her

husband and some others called her by quite another name. The alferez

revenged his conjugal misfortunes on his own person by getting so

drunk that he made a tank of himself, or by ordering his soldiers to

drill in the sun while he remained in the shade, or, more frequently,

by beating up his consort, who, if she was not a lamb of God to

take away one's sins, at least served to lay up for her spouse many

torments in Purgatory--if perchance he should get there, a matter of

doubt to the devout women. As if for the fun of it, these two used to

beat each other up beautifully, giving free shows to the neighborhood

with vocal and instrumental accompaniments, four-handed, soft, loud,

with pedal and all.

Whenever these scandals reached the ears of Padre Salvi, he would

smile, cross himself, and recite a paternoster. They called him a

grafter, a hypocrite, a Carlist, and a miser: he merely smiled and

recited more prayers. The alferez had a little anecdote which he

always related to the occasional Spaniards who visited him:

"Are you going over to the convento to visit the sanctimonious rascal

there, the little curate? Yes! Well, if he offers you chocolate which

I doubt--but if he offers it remember this: if he calls to the servant

and says, 'Juan, make a cup of chocolate, _eh!_' then stay without

fear; but if he calls out, 'Juan, make a cup of chocolate, _ah!_'

then take your hat and leave on a run."

"What!" the startled visitor would ask, "does he poison

people? _Carambas!_"

"No, man, not at all!"

"What then?"

"'Chocolate_, eh!_' means thick and rich, while 'chocolate, _ah!_'

means watered and thin."

But we are of the opinion that this was a slander on the part of

the alferez, since the same story is told of many curates. At least,

it may be a thing peculiar to the Order.

To make trouble for the curate, the soldier, at the instigation of his

wife, would prohibit any one from walking abroad after nine o'clock at

night. Dona Consolacion would then claim that she had seen the curate,

disguised in a pina camisa and salakot, walking about late. Fray Salvi

would take his revenge in a holy manner. Upon seeing the alferez enter

the church he would innocently order the sacristan to close all the

doors, and would then go up into the pulpit and preach until the very

saints closed their eyes and even the wooden dove above his head,

the image of the Holy Ghost, murmured for mercy. But the alferez,

like all the unregenerate, did not change his ways for this; he would

go away cursing, and as soon as he was able to catch a sacristan, or

one of the curate's servants, he would arrest him, give him a beating,

and make him scrub the floor of the barracks and that of his own house,

which at such times was put in a decent condition. On going to pay

the fine imposed by the curate for his absence, the sacristan would

explain the cause. Fray Salvi would listen in silence, take the money,

and at once turn out his goats and sheep so that they might graze

in the alferez's garden, while he himself looked up a new text for

another longer and more edifying sermon. But these were only little

pleasantries, and if the two chanced to meet they would shake hands

and converse politely.

When her husband was sleeping off the wine he had drunk, or was

snoring through the siesta, and she could not quarrel with him, Dona

Consolacion, in a blue flannel camisa, with a big cigar in her mouth,

would take her stand at the window. She could not endure the young

people, so from there she would scrutinize and mock the passing girls,

who, being afraid of her, would hurry by in confusion, holding their

breath the while, and not daring to raise their eyes. One great virtue

Dona Consolation possessed, and this was that she had evidently never

looked in a mirror.

These were the rulers of the town of San Diego.

CHAPTER XII

All Saints

The one thing perhaps that indisputably distinguishes man from the

brute creation is the attention which he pays to those who have passed

away and, wonder of wonders! this characteristic seems to be more

deeply rooted in proportion to the lack of civilization. Historians

relate that the ancient inhabitants of the Philippines venerated and

deified their ancestors; but now the contrary is true, and the dead

have to entrust themselves to the living. It is also related that

the people of New Guinea preserve the bones of their dead in chests

and maintain communication with them. The greater part of the peoples

of Asia, Africa, and America offer them the finest products of their

kitchens or dishes of what was their favorite food when alive, and

give banquets at which they believe them to be present. The Egyptians

raised up palaces and the Mussulmans built shrines, but the masters

in these things, those who have most clearly read the human heart,

are the people of Dahomey. These negroes know that man is revengeful,

so they consider that nothing will more content the dead than to

sacrifice all his enemies upon his grave, and, as man is curious and

may not know how to entertain himself in the other life, each year

they send him a newsletter under the skin of a beheaded slave.

We ourselves differ from all the rest. In spite of the inscriptions on

the tombs, hardly any one believes that the dead rest, and much less,

that they rest in peace. The most optimistic fancies his forefathers

still roasting in purgatory and, if it turns out that he himself be

not completely damned, he will yet be able to associate with them for

many years. If any one would contradict let him visit the churches and

cemeteries of the country on All Saints' day and he will be convinced.

Now that we are in San Diego let us visit its cemetery, which is

located in the midst of paddy-fields, there toward the west--not a

city, merely a village of the dead, approached by a path dusty in dry

weather and navigable on rainy days. A wooden gate and a fence half

of stone and half of bamboo stakes, appear to separate it from the

abode of the living but not from the curate's goats and some of the

pigs of the neighborhood, who come and go making explorations among the

tombs and enlivening the solitude with their presence. In the center of

this enclosure rises a large wooden cross set on a stone pedestal. The

storms have doubled over the tin plate for the inscription INRI, and

the rains have effaced the letters. At the foot of the cross, as on

the real Golgotha, is a confused heap of skulls and bones which the

indifferent grave-digger has thrown from the graves he digs, and there

they will probably await, not the resurrection of the dead, but the

coming of the animals to defile them. Round about may be noted signs

of recent excavations; here the earth is sunken, there it forms a low

mound. There grow in all their luxuriance the _tarambulo_ to #######

the feet with its spiny berries and the _pandakaki_ to add its odor

to that of the cemetery, as if the place did not have smells enough

already. Yet the ground is sprinkled with a few little flowers which,

like those skulls, are known only to their Creator; their petals wear

a pale smile and their fragrance is the fragrance of the tombs. The

grass and creepers fill up the corners or climb over the walls and

niches to cover and beautify the naked ugliness and in places even

penetrate into the fissures made by the earthquakes, so as to hide

from sight the revered hollowness of the sepulcher.

At the time we enter, the people have driven the animals away, with the

single exception of some old hog, an animal that is hard to convince,

who shows his small eyes and pulling back his head from a great gap

in the fence, sticks up his snout and seems to say to a woman praying

near, "Don't eat it all, leave something for me, won't you?"

Two men are digging a grave near one of the tottering walls. One

of them, the grave-digger, works with indifference, throwing about

bones as a gardener does stones and dry branches, while the other,

more intent on his work, is perspiring, smoking, and spitting at

every moment.

"Listen," says the latter in Tagalog, "wouldn't it be better for us

to dig in some other place? This is too recent."

"One grave is as recent as another."

"I can't stand it any longer! That bone you're just cut in two has

blood oozing from it--and those hairs?"

"But how sensitive you are!" was the other's reproach. "Just as if

you were a town clerk! If, like myself, you had dug up a corpse of

twenty days, on a dark and rainy night--! My lantern went out--"

His companion shuddered.

"The coffin burst open, the corpse fell half-way out, it stunk--and

supposing you had to carry it--the rain wet us both--"

"Ugh! And why did you dig it up?"

The grave-digger looked at him in surprise. "Why? How do I know? I

was ordered to do so."

"Who ordered you?"

The grave-digger stepped backward and looked his companion over from

head to foot. "Man, you're like a Spaniard, for afterwards a Spaniard

asked me the same questions, but in secret. So I'm going to answer

you as I answered the Spaniard: the fat curate ordered me to do so."

"Ah! And what did you do with the corpse afterwards?" further

questioned the sensitive one.

"The devil! If I didn't know you and was not sure that you are a _man_

I would say that you were certainly a Spaniard of the Civil Guard,

since you ask questions just as he did. Well, the fat curate ordered

me to bury it in the Chinamen's cemetery, but the coffin was heavy

and the Chinese cemetery far away--"

"No, no! I'm not going to dig any more!" the other interrupted in

horror as he threw away his spade and jumped out of the hole. "I've cut

a skull in two and I'm afraid that it won't let me sleep tonight." The

old grave-digger laughed to see how the chicken-hearted fellow left,

crossing himself.

The cemetery was filling up with men and women dressed in

mourning. Some sought a grave for a time, disputing among themselves

the while, and as if they were unable to agree, they scattered

about, each kneeling where he thought best. Others, who had niches

for their deceased relatives, lighted candles and fell to praying

devoutly. Exaggerated or suppressed sighs and sobs were heard amid

the hum of prayers, _orapreo, orapreiss, requiem-aeternams_, that

arose from all sides.

A little old man with bright eyes entered bareheaded. Upon seeing

him many laughed, and some women knitted their eyebrows. The old man

did not seem to pay any attention to these demonstrations as he went

toward a pile of skulls and knelt to look earnestly for something

among the bones. Then he carefully removed the skulls one by one, but

apparently without finding what he sought, for he wrinkled his brow,

nodded his head from side to side, looked all about him, and finally

rose and approached the grave-digger, who raised his head when the

old man spoke to him.

"Do you know where there is a beautiful skull, white as the meat of a

coconut, with a complete set of teeth, which I had there at the foot

of the cross under those leaves?"

The grave-digger shrugged his shoulders.

"Look!" added the old man, showing a silver coin, "I have only this,

but I'll give it to you if you find the skull for me."

The gleam of the silver caused the grave-digger to consider, and

staring toward the heap of bones he said, "Isn't it there? No? Then

I don't know where it is."

"Don't you know? When those who owe me pay me, I'll give you more,"

continued the old man. "It was the skull of my wife, so if you find

it for me--"

"Isn't it there? Then I don't know! But if you wish, I can give

you another."

"You're like the grave you're digging," apostrophized the old man

nervously. "You don't know the value of what you lose. For whom is

that grave?"

"How should I know?" replied the other in bad humor.

"For a corpse!"

"Like the grave, like the grave!" repeated the old man with a dry

smile. "You don't know what you throw away nor what you receive! Dig,

dig on!" And he turned away in the direction of the gate.

Meanwhile, the grave-digger had completed his task, attested by the

two mounds of fresh red earth at the sides of the grave. He took some

buyo from his salakot and began to chew it while he stared stupidly

at what was going on around him.

CHAPTER XIII

Signs of Storm

As the old man was leaving the cemetery there stopped at the head

of the path a carriage which, from its dust-covered appearance and

sweating horses, seemed to have come from a great distance. Followed

by an aged servant, Ibarra left the carriage and dismissed it with a

wave of his hand, then gravely and silently turned toward the cemetery.

"My illness and my duties have not permitted me to return," said the

old servant timidly. "Capitan Tiago promised that he would see that

a niche was constructed, but I planted some flowers on the grave and

set up a cross carved by my own hands." Ibarra made no reply. "There

behind that big cross, sir," he added when they were well inside the

gate, as he pointed to the place.

Ibarra was so intent upon his quest that he did not notice the

movement of surprise on the part of the persons who recognized him

and suspended their prayers to watch him curiously. He walked along

carefully to avoid stepping on any of the graves, which were easily

distinguishable by the hollow places in the soil. In other times he

had walked on them carelessly, but now they were to be respected:

his father lay among them. When he reached the large cross he stopped

and looked all around. His companion stood confused and confounded,

seeking some mark in the ground, but nowhere was any cross to be seen.

"Was it here?" he murmured through his teeth. "No, there! But the

ground has been disturbed."

Ibarra gave him a look of anguish.

"Yes," he went on, "I remember that there was a stone near it. The

grave was rather short. The grave-digger was sick, so a farmer had

to dig it. But let's ask that man what has become of the cross."

They went over to where the grave-digger was watching them with

curiosity. He removed his salakot respectfully as they approached.

"Can you tell me which is the grave there that had a cross over

it?" asked the servant.

The grave-digger looked toward the place and reflected. "A big cross?"

"Yes, a big one!" affirmed the servant eagerly, with a significant

look at Ibarra, whose face lighted up.

"A carved cross tied up with rattan?" continued the grave-digger.

"That's it, that's it, like this!" exclaimed the servant in answer

as he drew on the ground the figure of a Byzantine cross.

"Were there flowers scattered on the grave?"

"Oleanders and tuberoses and forget-me-nots, yes!" the servant added

joyfully, offering the grave-digger a cigar.

"Tell us which is the grave and where the cross is."

The grave-digger scratched his ear and answered with a yawn: "Well,

as for the cross, I burned it."

"Burned it? Why did you burn it?"

"Because the fat curate ordered me to do so."

"Who is the fat curate?" asked Ibarra.

"Who? Why, the one that beats people with a big cane."

Ibarra drew his hand across his forehead. "But at least you can tell

us where the grave is. You must remember that."

The grave-digger smiled as he answered quietly, "But the corpse is

no longer there."

"What's that you're saying?"

"Yes," continued the grave-digger in a half-jesting tone. "I buried

a woman in that place a week ago."

"Are you crazy?" cried the servant. "It hasn't been a year since we

buried him."

"That's very true, but a good many months ago I dug the body up. The

fat curate ordered me to do so and to take it to the cemetery of the

Chinamen. But as it was heavy and there was rain that night--"

He was stopped by the threatening attitude of Ibarra, who had caught

him by the arm and was shaking him. "Did you do that?" demanded the

youth in an indescribable tone.

"Don't be angry, sir," stammered the pale and trembling

grave-digger. "I didn't bury him among the Chinamen. Better be drowned

than lie among Chinamen, I said to myself, so I threw the body into

the lake."

Ibarra placed both his hands on the grave-digger's shoulders and

stared at him for a long time with an indefinable expression. Then,

with the ejaculation, "You are only a miserable slave!" he turned

away hurriedly, stepping upon bones, graves, and crosses, like one

beside himself.

The grave-digger patted his arm and muttered, "All the trouble dead

men cause! The fat padre caned me for allowing it to be buried while

I was sick, and this fellow almost tore my arm off for having dug it

up. That's what these Spaniards are! I'll lose my job yet!"

Ibarra walked rapidly with a far-away look in his eyes, while the

aged servant followed him weeping. The sun was setting, and over the

eastern sky was flung a heavy curtain of clouds. A dry wind shook the

tree-tops and made the bamboo clumps creak. Ibarra went bareheaded,

but no tear wet his eyes nor did any sigh escape from his breast. He

moved as if fleeing from something, perhaps the shade of his father,

perhaps the approaching storm. He crossed through the town to the

outskirts on the opposite side and turned toward the old house which he

had not entered for so many years. Surrounded by a cactus-covered wall

it seemed to beckon to him with its open windows, while the ilang-ilang

waved its flower-laden branches joyfully and the doves circled about

the conical roof of their cote in the middle of the garden.

But the youth gave no heed to these signs of welcome back to his old

home, his eyes being fixed on the figure of a priest approaching from

the opposite direction. It was the curate of San Diego, the pensive

Franciscan whom we have seen before, the rival of the alferez. The

breeze folded back the brim of his wide hat and blew his _guingon_

habit closely about him, revealing the outlines of his body and his

thin, curved thighs. In his right hand he carried an ivory-headed

_palasan_ cane.

This was the first time that he and Ibarra had met. When they drew

near each other Ibarra stopped and gazed at him from head to foot;

Fray Salvi avoided the look and tried to appear unconcerned. After

a moment of hesitation Ibarra went up to him quickly and dropping a

heavy hand on his shoulder, asked in a husky voice, "What did you do

with my father?"

Fray Salvi, pale and trembling as he read the deep feelings that

flushed the youth's face, could not answer; he seemed paralyzed.

"What did you do with my father?" again demanded the youth in a

choking voice.

The priest, who was gradually being forced to his knees by the heavy

hand that pressed upon his shoulder, made a great effort and answered,

"You are mistaken, I did nothing to your father."

"You didn't?" went on the youth, forcing him down upon his knees.

"No, I assure you! It was my predecessor, it was Padre Damaso!"

"Ah!" exclaimed the youth, releasing his hold, and clapping his hand

desperately to his brow; then, leaving poor Fray Salvi, he turned away

and hurried toward his house. The old servant came up and helped the

friar to his feet.

**LONG OVER DUE SORRY FOR THE DELAY**

[muñequita linda 0]

CHAPTER X

..... they found the decaying corpse of the old Spaniard hanging from the branch of a balete tree. [51] In life he had inspired fear by his deep, hollow voice, his sunken eyes, and his mirthless laugh, but now, dead by his own act, he disturbed the sleep of the women. Some threw the jewels into the river and burned the clothes, and from the time that the corpse was buried at the foot of the balete itself, no one willingly ventured near the spot. A belated herdsman looking for some of his strayed charges told of lights that he had seen there, and when some venturesome youths went to the place they heard mournful cries. To win the smiles of his disdainful lady, a forlorn lover agreed to spend the night there and in proof to wrap around the trunk a long piece of rattan, but he died of a quick fever that seized him the very next day. Stories and legends still cluster about the place.....

I wonder if the tales and stories surrounding the legendary balete tree emanated from this chapter of the Noli. Or, that the legend about ghosts, spirits, multos, kapres or aswangs by the balete tree already existed and Rizal was just validating the existence of such myths and tales.

[Señorita Tessa 1]

Having read marriage gripes of some Filipinas who are now in America, I can't help but liken them to the conjugal misfortunes that the alferéz had with Doña Consolación.

[Besame Mucho 1]

Having read marriage gripes of some Filipinas who are now in America, I can't help but liken them to the conjugal misfortunes that the alferéz had with Doña Consolación.

Eso es la verdad, comadre. ¡Qué lástima!

[Señor Bonito 2]

CHAPTER X

..... they found the decaying corpse of the old Spaniard hanging from the branch of a balete tree. [51] In life he had inspired fear by his deep, hollow voice, his sunken eyes, and his mirthless laugh, but now, dead by his own act, he disturbed the sleep of the women. Some threw the jewels into the river and burned the clothes, and from the time that the corpse was buried at the foot of the balete itself, no one willingly ventured near the spot. A belated herdsman looking for some of his strayed charges told of lights that he had seen there, and when some venturesome youths went to the place they heard mournful cries. To win the smiles of his disdainful lady, a forlorn lover agreed to spend the night there and in proof to wrap around the trunk a long piece of rattan, but he died of a quick fever that seized him the very next day. Stories and legends still cluster about the place.....

I wonder if the tales and stories surrounding the legendary balete tree emanated from this chapter of the Noli. Or, that the legend about ghosts, spirits, multos, kapres or aswangs by the balete tree already existed and Rizal was just validating the existence of such myths and tales.

My family back home in Ilocos believes in the legend of the balete tree. My dad used to tell me about spirits and ghosts under the balete and he swore that he had seen them many times in his younger days.

[Señor Bonito 2]

CHAPTER XIII

"..... Don't be angry, sir," stammered the pale and trembling grave-digger. "I didn't bury him among the Chinamen. Better be drowned than lie among Chinamen, I said to myself, so I threw the body into the lake."

It appears from the above dialogue that the Chinese were not very well liked by the locals in the old days. Since I have been out of the Philippines for over 35 years now, albeit I know that some Chinese are now captains of business and industry and are likewise powerful politicos, I don't know the sentiment of the average Filipino towards them.

[mrsartis 10]

CHAPTER XIII

"..... Don't be angry, sir," stammered the pale and trembling grave-digger. "I didn't bury him among the Chinamen. Better be drowned than lie among Chinamen, I said to myself, so I threw the body into the lake."

It appears from the above dialogue that the Chinese were not very well liked by the locals in the old days. Since I have been out of the Philippines for over 35 years now, albeit I know that some Chinese are now captains of business and industry and are likewise powerful politicos, I don't know the sentiment of the average Filipino towards them.

I recall my conversations with the famous historian Carlos Celdran, that Chinese in those days are considered at the bottom of the caste system. and to be buried with them is a dishonor to the whole clan.. tsk tsk..

but guess who are the richest men in the country now? hay the chinese..

[mrsartis 10]

Chapter XIII

Signs of Storm

As the old man was leaving the cemetery there stopped at the head of the path a carriage which, from its dust-covered appearance and sweating horses, seemed to have come from a great distance. Followed by an aged servant, Ibarra left the carriage and dismissed it with a wave of his hand, then gravely and silently turned toward the cemetery.

"My illness and my duties have not permitted me to return," said the old servant timidly. "Capitan Tiago promised that he would see that a niche was constructed, but I planted some flowers on the grave and set up a cross carved by my own hands." Ibarra made no reply. "There behind that big cross, sir," he added when they were well inside the gate, as he pointed to the place.

Ibarra was so intent upon his quest that he did not notice the movement of surprise on the part of the persons who recognized him and suspended their prayers to watch him curiously. He walked along carefully to avoid stepping on any of the graves, which were easily distinguishable by the hollow places in the soil. In other times he had walked on them carelessly, but now they were to be respected: his father lay among them. When he reached the large cross he stopped and looked all around. His companion stood confused and confounded, seeking some mark in the ground, but nowhere was any cross to be seen.

"Was it here?" he murmured through his teeth. "No, there! But the ground has been disturbed."

Ibarra gave him a look of anguish.

"Yes," he went on, "I remember that there was a stone [88]near it. The grave was rather short. The grave-digger was sick, so a farmer had to dig it. But let’s ask that man what has become of the cross." They went over to where the grave-digger was watching them with curiosity. He removed his salakot respectfully as they approached.

"Can you tell me which is the grave there that had a cross over it?" asked the servant.

The grave-digger looked toward the place and reflected. "A big cross?"

"Yes, a big one!" affirmed the servant eagerly, with a significant look at Ibarra, whose face lighted up.

"A carved cross tied up with rattan?" continued the grave-digger.

"That’s it, that’s it, like this!" exclaimed the servant in answer as he drew on the ground the figure of a Byzantine cross.

"Were there flowers scattered on the grave?"

"Oleanders and tuberoses and forget-me-nots, yes!" the servant added joyfully, offering the grave-digger a cigar.

"Tell us which is the grave and where the cross is."

The grave-digger scratched his ear and answered with a yawn: "Well, as for the cross, I burned it."

"Burned it? Why did you burn it?"

"Because the fat curate ordered me to do so."

"Who is the fat curate?" asked Ibarra.

"Who? Why, the one that beats people with a big cane."

Ibarra drew his hand across his forehead. "But at least you can tell us where the grave is. You must remember that."

The grave-digger smiled as he answered quietly, "But the corpse is no longer there."

"What’s that you’re saying?"

"Yes," continued the grave-digger in a half-jesting tone. "I buried a woman in that place a week ago."

[89]"Are you crazy?" cried the servant. "It hasn’t been a year since we buried him." "That’s very true, but a good many months ago I dug the body up. The fat curate ordered me to do so and to take it to the cemetery of the Chinamen. But as it was heavy and there was rain that night—"

He was stopped by the threatening attitude of Ibarra, who had caught him by the arm and was shaking him. "Did you do that?" demanded the youth in an indescribable tone.

"Don’t be angry, sir," stammered the pale and trembling grave-digger. "I didn’t bury him among the Chinamen. Better be drowned than lie among Chinamen, I said to myself, so I threw the body into the lake."

Ibarra placed both his hands on the grave-digger’s shoulders and stared at him for a long time with an indefinable expression. Then, with the ejaculation, "You are only a miserable slave!" he turned away hurriedly, stepping upon bones, graves, and crosses, like one beside himself.

The grave-digger patted his arm and muttered, "All the trouble dead men cause! The fat padre caned me for allowing it to be buried while I was sick, and this fellow almost tore my arm off for having dug it up. That’s what these Spaniards are! I’ll lose my job yet!"

Ibarra walked rapidly with a far-away look in his eyes, while the aged servant followed him weeping. The sun was setting, and over the eastern sky was flung a heavy curtain of clouds. A dry wind shook the tree-tops and made the bamboo clumps creak. Ibarra went bareheaded, but no tear wet his eyes nor did any sigh escape from his breast. He moved as if fleeing from something, perhaps the shade of his father, perhaps the approaching storm. He crossed through the town to the outskirts on the opposite side and turned toward the old house which he had not entered for so many years. Surrounded by a cactus-covered wall it seemed to beckon to him with its open windows, while the ilang-ilang waved its flower-laden branches joyfully [90]and the doves circled about the conical roof of their cote in the middle of the garden. But the youth gave no heed to these signs of welcome back to his old home, his eyes being fixed on the figure of a priest approaching from the opposite direction. It was the curate of San Diego, the pensive Franciscan whom we have seen before, the rival of the alferez. The breeze folded back the brim of his wide hat and blew his guingón habit closely about him, revealing the outlines of his body and his thin, curved thighs. In his right hand he carried an ivory-headed palasan cane.

This was the first time that he and Ibarra had met. When they drew near each other Ibarra stopped and gazed at him from head to foot; Fray Salvi avoided the look and tried to appear unconcerned. After a moment of hesitation Ibarra went up to him quickly and dropping a heavy hand on his shoulder, asked in a husky voice, "What did you do with my father?"

Fray Salvi, pale and trembling as he read the deep feelings that flushed the youth’s face, could not answer; he seemed paralyzed.

"What did you do with my father?" again demanded the youth in a choking voice.

The priest, who was gradually being forced to his knees by the heavy hand that pressed upon his shoulder, made a great effort and answered, "You are mistaken, I did nothing to your father."

"You didn’t?" went on the youth, forcing him down upon his knees.

"No, I assure you! It was my predecessor, it was Padre Damaso!"

"Ah!" exclaimed the youth, releasing his hold, and clapping his hand desperately to his brow; then, leaving poor Fray Salvi, he turned away and hurried toward his house. The old servant came up and helped the friar to his feet.

[muñequita linda 0]

Thanks, mrsartis, but I hope you realize that this is the second time that you posted Chapter XIII. Now, the other Noli buffs and me can't wait for Chapter XIV.

[mrsartis 10]

Thanks, mrsartis, but I hope you realize that this is the second time that you posted Chapter XIII. Now, the other Noli buffs and me can't wait for Chapter XIV.

sorry baout that lol.. will give you 3 more chapters then.. =)

[mrsartis 10]

CHAPTERS 14-16

Chapter XIV

Tasio: Lunatic or Sage

The peculiar old man wandered about the streets aimlessly. A former student of philosophy, he had given up his career in obedience to his mother’s wishes and not from any lack of means or ability. Quite the contrary, it was because his mother was rich and he was said to possess talent. The good woman feared that her son would become learned and forget God, so she had given him his choice of entering the priesthood or leaving college. Being in love, he chose the latter course and married. Then having lost both his wife and his mother within a year, he sought consolation in his books in order to free himself from sorrow, the cockpit, and the dangers of idleness. He became so addicted to his studies and the purchase of books, that he entirely neglected his fortune and gradually ruined himself. Persons of culture called him Don Anastasio, or Tasio the Sage, while the great crowd of the ignorant knew him as Tasio the Lunatic, on account of his peculiar ideas and his eccentric manner of dealing with others.

As we said before, the evening threatened to be stormy. The lightning flashed its pale rays across the leaden sky, the air was heavy and the slight breeze excessively sultry. Tasio had apparently already forgotten his beloved skull, and now he was smiling as he looked at the dark clouds. Near the church he met a man wearing an alpaca coat, who carried in one hand a large bundle of candles and in the other a tasseled cane, the emblem of his office as gobernadorcillo.

"You seem to be merry?" he greeted Tasio in Tagalog.

[92]"Truly I am, señor capitan, I’m merry because I hope for something." "Ah? What do you hope for?"

"The storm!"

"The storm? Are you thinking of taking a bath?" asked the gobernadorcillo in a jesting way as he stared at the simple attire of the old man.

"A bath? That’s not a bad idea, especially when one has just stumbled over some trash!" answered Tasio in a similar, though somewhat more offensive tone, staring at the other’s face. "But I hope for something better."

"What, then?"

"Some thunderbolts that will kill people and burn down houses," returned the Sage seriously.

"Why don’t you ask for the deluge at once?"

"We all deserve it, even you and I! You, señor gobernadorcillo, have there a bundle of tapers that came from some Chinese shop, yet this now makes the tenth year that I have been proposing to each new occupant of your office the purchase of lightning-rods. Every one laughs at me, and buys bombs and rockets and pays for the ringing of bells. Even you yourself, on the day after I made my proposition, ordered from the Chinese founders a bell in honor of St. Barbara,1 when science has shown that it is dangerous to ring the bells during a storm. Explain to me why in the year ’70, when lightning struck in Biñan, it hit the very church tower and destroyed the clock and altar. What was the bell of St. Barbara doing then?" At the moment there was a vivid flash. "Jesús, María, y José! Holy St. Barbara!" exclaimed the gobernadorcillo, turning pale and crossing himself.

Tasio burst out into a loud laugh. "You are worthy of your patroness," he remarked dryly in Spanish as he turned his back and went toward the church.

Inside, the sacristans were preparing a catafalque, bordered [93]with candles placed in wooden sockets. Two large tables had been placed one above the other and covered with black cloth across which ran white stripes, with here and there a skull painted on it. "Is that for the souls or for the candles?" inquired the old man, but noticing two boys, one about ten and the other seven, he turned to them without awaiting an answer from the sacristans.

"Won’t you come with me, boys?" he asked them. "Your mother has prepared a supper for you fit for a curate."

"The senior sacristan will not let us leave until eight o’clock, sir," answered the larger of the two boys. "I expect to get my pay to give it to our mother."

"Ah! And where are you going now?"

"To the belfry, sir, to ring the knell for the souls."

"Going to the belfry! Then take care! Don’t go near the bells during the storm!"

Tasio then left the church, not without first bestowing a look of pity on the two boys, who were climbing the stairway into the organ-loft. He passed his hand over his eyes, looked at the sky again, and murmured, "Now I should be sorry if thunderbolts should fall." With his head bowed in thought he started toward the outskirts of the town.

"Won’t you come in?" invited a voice in Spanish from a window.

The Sage raised his head and saw a man of thirty or thirty-five years of age smiling at him.

"What are you reading there?" asked Tasio, pointing to a book the man held in his hand.

"A work just published: ‘The Torments Suffered by the Blessed Souls in Purgatory,’" the other answered with a smile.

"Man, man, man!" exclaimed the Sage in an altered tone as he entered the house. "The author must be a very clever person."

[94]Upon reaching the top of the stairway, he was cordially received by the master of the house, Don Filipo Lino, and his young wife, Doña Teodora Viña. Don Filipo was the teniente-mayor of the town and leader of one of the parties—the liberal faction, if it be possible to speak so, and if there exist parties in the towns of the Philippines. "Did you meet in the cemetery the son of the deceased Don Rafael, who has just returned from Europe?"

"Yes, I saw him as he alighted from his carriage."

"They say that he went to look for his father’s grave. It must have been a terrible blow."

The Sage shrugged his shoulders.

"Doesn’t such a misfortune affect you?" asked the young wife.

"You know very well that I was one of the six who accompanied the body, and it was I who appealed to the Captain-General when I saw that no one, not even the authorities, said anything about such an outrage, although I always prefer to honor a good man in life rather than to worship him after his death."

"Well?"

"But, madam, I am not a believer in hereditary monarchy. By reason of the Chinese blood which I have received from my mother I believe a little like the Chinese: I honor the father on account of the son and not the son on account of the father. I believe that each one should receive the reward or punishment for his own deeds, not for those of another."

"Did you order a mass said for your dead wife, as I advised you yesterday?" asked the young woman, changing the subject of conversation.

"No," answered the old man with a smile.

"What a pity!" she exclaimed with unfeigned regret.

"They say that until ten o’clock tomorrow the souls will wander at liberty, awaiting the prayers of the living, and that during these days one mass is equivalent to five on [95]other days of the year, or even to six, as the curate said this morning." "What! Does that mean that we have a period without paying, which we should take advantage of?"

"But, Doray," interrupted Don Filipo, "you know that Don Anastasio doesn’t believe in purgatory."

"I don’t believe in purgatory!" protested the old man, partly rising from his seat. "Even when I know something of its history!"

"The history of purgatory!" exclaimed the couple, full of surprise. "Come, relate it to us."

"You don’t know it and yet you order masses and talk about its torments? Well, as it has begun to rain and threatens to continue, we shall have time to relieve the monotony," replied Tasio, falling into a thoughtful mood.

Don Filipo closed the book which he held in his hand and Doray sat down at his side determined not to believe anything that the old man was about to say.

The latter began in the following manner: "Purgatory existed long before Our Lord came into the world and must have been located in the center of the earth, according to Padre Astete; or somewhere near Cluny, according to the monk of whom Padre Girard tells us. But the location is of least importance here. Now then, who were scorching in those fires that had been burning from the beginning of the world? Its very ancient existence is proved by Christian philosophy, which teaches that God has created nothing new since he rested."

"But it could have existed in potentia and not in actu,"2 observed Don Filipo. "Very well! But yet I must answer that some knew of it and as existing in actu. One of these was Zarathustra, or Zoroaster, who wrote part of the Zend-Avesta and founded a religion which in some points resembles ours, and Zarathustra, according to the scholars, flourished at least eight hundred years before Christ. I say ‘at least,’ [96]since Gaffarel, after examining the testimony of Plato, Xanthus of Lydia, Pliny, Hermippus, and Eudoxus, believes it to have been two thousand five hundred years before our era. However that may be, it is certain that Zarathustra talked of a kind of purgatory and showed ways of getting free from it. The living could redeem the souls of those who died in sin by reciting passages from the Avesta and by doing good works, but under the condition that the person offering the petitions should be a relative, up to the fourth generation. The time for this occurred every year and lasted five days. Later, when this belief had become fixed among the people, the priests of that religion saw in it a chance of profit and so they exploited ‘the deep and dark prison where remorse reigns,’ as Zarathustra called it. They declared that by the payment of a small coin it was possible to save a soul from a year of torture, but as in that religion there were sins punishable by three hundred to a thousand years of suffering, such as lying, faithlessness, failure to keep one’s word, and so on, it resulted that the rascals took in countless sums. Here you will observe something like our purgatory, if you take into account the differences in the religions." A vivid flash of lightning, followed by rolling thunder, caused Doray to start up and exclaim, as she crossed herself: "Jesús, María, y José! I’m going to leave you, I’m going to burn some sacred palm and light candles of penitence."

The rain began to fall in torrents. The Sage Tasio, watching the young woman leave, continued: "Now that she is not here, we can consider this matter more rationally. Doray, even though a little superstitious, is a good Catholic, and I don’t care to root out the faith from her heart. A pure and simple faith is as distinct from fanaticism as the flame from smoke or music from discords: only the fools and the deaf confuse them. Between ourselves we can say that the idea of purgatory is good, holy, and rational. It perpetuates the union of those who [97]were and those who are, leading thus to greater purity of life. The evil is in its abuse. "But let us now see where Catholicism got this idea, which does not exist in the Old Testament nor in the Gospels. Neither Moses nor Christ made the slightest mention of it, and the single passage which is cited from Maccabees is insufficient. Besides, this book was declared apocryphal by the Council of Laodicea and the holy Catholic Church accepted it only later. Neither have the pagan religions anything like it. The oft-quoted passage in Virgil, Aliae panduntur inanes,

3 which probably gave occasion for St. Gregory the Great to speak of drowned souls, and to Dante for another narrative in his Divine Comedy, cannot have been the origin of this belief. Neither the Brahmins, the Buddhists, nor the Egyptians, who may have given Rome her Charon and her Avernus, had anything like this idea. I won’t speak now of the religions of northern Europe, for they were religions of warriors, bards, and hunters, and not of philosophers. While they yet preserve their beliefs and even their rites under Christian forms, they were unable to accompany the hordes in the spoliation of Rome or to seat themselves on the Capitoline; the religions of the mists were dissipated by the southern sun. Now then, the early Christians did not believe in a purgatory but died in the blissful confidence of shortly seeing God face to face. Apparently the first fathers of the Church who mentioned it were St. Clement of Alexandria, Origen, and St. Irenaeus, who were all perhaps influenced by Zarathustra’s religion, which still flourished and was widely spread throughout the East, since at every step we read reproaches against Origen’s Orientalism. St. Irenaeus proved its existence by the fact that Christ remained ‘three days in the depths of the [98]earth,’ three days of purgatory, and deduced from this that every soul must remain there until the resurrection of the body, although the ‘Hodie mecum eris in Paradiso’4 seems to contradict it. St. Augustine also speaks of purgatory and, if not affirming its existence, yet he did not believe it impossible, conjecturing that in another existence there might continue the punishments that we receive in this life for our sins." "The devil with St. Augustine!" ejaculated Don Filipo. "He wasn’t satisfied with what we suffer here but wished a continuance."

"Well, so it went" some believed it and others didn’t. Although St. Gregory finally came to admit it in his de quibusdam levibus culpis esse ante judicium purgatorius ignis credendus est,5 yet nothing definite was done until the year 1439, that is, eight centuries later, when the Council of Florence declared that there must exist a purifying fire for the souls of those who have died in the love of God but without having satisfied divine Justice. Lastly, the Council of Trent under Pius IV in 1563, in the twenty-fifth session, issued the purgatorial decree beginning Cura catholica ecclesia, Spiritu Santo edocta, wherein it deduces that, after the office of the mass, the petitions of the living, their prayers, alms, and other pious works are the surest means of freeing the souls. Nevertheless, the Protestants do not believe in it nor do the Greek Fathers, since they reject any Biblical authority for it and say that our responsibility ends with death, and that the ‘Quodcumque ligaberis in terra,’6 does not mean ‘usque ad purgatorium,’7 but to this the answer can be made that since purgatory is located in the center of the earth it fell naturally under the control of St. Peter. But I should never get through if I had to relate all that [99]has been said on the subject. Any day that you wish to discuss the matter with me, come to my house and there we will consult the books and talk freely and quietly. "Now I must go. I don’t understand why Christian piety permits robbery on this night—and you, the authorities, allow it—and I fear for my books. If they should steal them to read I wouldn’t object, but I know that there are many who wish to burn them in order to do for me an act of charity, and such charity, worthy of the Caliph Omar, is to be dreaded. Some believe that on account of those books I am already damned—"

"But I suppose that you do believe in damnation?" asked Doray with a smile, as she appeared carrying in a brazier the dry palm leaves, which gave off a peculiar smoke and an agreeable odor.

"I don’t know, madam, what God will do with me," replied the old man thoughtfully. "When I die I will commit myself to Him without fear and He may do with me what He wishes. But a thought strikes me!"

"What thought is that?"

"If the only ones who can be saved are the Catholics, and of them only five per cent—as many curates say—and as the Catholics form only a twelfth part of the population of the world—if we believe what statistics show—it would result that after damning millions and millions of men during the countless ages that passed before the Saviour came to the earth, after a Son of God has died for us, it is now possible to save only five in every twelve hundred. That cannot be so! I prefer to believe and say with Job: ‘Wilt thou break a leaf driven to and fro, and wilt thou pursue the dry stubble?’ No, such a calamity is impossible and to believe it is blasphemy!"

"What do you wish? Divine Justice, divine Purity—"

"Oh, but divine Justice and divine Purity saw the future before the creation," answered the old man, as he rose shuddering. "Man is an accidental and not a necessary part of creation, and that God cannot have created [100]him, no indeed, only to make a few happy and condemn hundreds to eternal misery, and all in a moment, for hereditary faults! No! If that be true, strangle your baby son sleeping there! If such a belief were not a blasphemy against that God, who must be the Highest Good, then the Phenician Moloch, which was appeased with human sacrifices and innocent blood, and in whose belly were burned the babes torn from their mothers’ breasts, that bloody deity, that horrible divinity, would be by the side of Him a weak girl, a friend, a mother of humanity!" Horrified, the Lunatic—or the Sage—left the house and ran along the street in spite of the rain and the darkness. A lurid flash, followed by frightful thunder and filling the air with deadly currents, lighted the old man as he stretched his hand toward the sky and cried out: "Thou protestest! I know that Thou art not cruel, I know that I must only name Thee Good!"

The flashes of lightning became more frequent and the storm increased in violence. [101]

1 St. Barbara is invoked during thunder-storms as the special protectress against lightning.—TR. 2 In possibility (i.e., latent) and not: in fact.—TR.

3 "For this are various penances enjoined;

And some are hung to bleach upon the wind;

Some plunged in waters, others purged in fires,

Till all the dregs are drained, and all the rust expires."

Dryden, Virgil’s Aeneid, VI.

4 "Today shalt thou be with me in paradise."—Luke xxiii, 43. 5 It should be believed that for some light faults there is a purgatorial fire before the judgment.

6 Whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth.—Matt, xvi, 19. 7 Even up to purgatory.

{mospagebreak_scroll title=Chapter XV-The Sacristans}

Chapter XV

The Sacristans

The thunder resounded, roar following close upon roar, each preceded’ by a blinding flash of zigzag lightning, so that it might have been said that God was writing his name in fire and that the eternal arch of heaven was trembling with fear. The rain, whipped about in a different direction each moment by the mournfully whistling wind, fell in torrents. With a voice full of fear the bells sounded their sad supplication, and in the brief pauses between the roars of the unchained elements tolled forth sorrowful peals, like plaintive groans.

On the second floor of the church tower were the two boys whom we saw talking to the Sage. The younger, a child of seven years with large black eyes and a timid countenance, was huddling close to his brother, a boy of ten, whom he greatly resembled in features, except that the look on the elder’s face was deeper and firmer.

Both were meanly dressed in clothes full of rents and patches. They sat upon a block of wood, each holding the end of a rope which extended upward and was lost amid the shadows above. The wind-driven rain reached them and snuffed the piece of candle burning dimly on the large round stone that was used to furnish the thunder on Good Friday by being rolled around the gallery.

"Pull on the rope, Crispin, pull!" cried the elder to his little brother, who did as he was told, so that from above was heard a faint peal, instantly drowned out by the reechoing thunder.

"Oh, if we were only at home now with mother," sighed [102]the younger, as he gazed at his brother. "There I shouldn’t be afraid." The elder did not answer; he was watching the melting wax of the candle, apparently lost in thought.

"There no one would say that I stole," went on Crispin. "Mother wouldn’t allow it. If she knew that they whip me—"

The elder took his gaze from the flame, raised his head, and clutching the thick rope pulled violently on it so that a sonorous peal of the bells was heard.

"Are we always going to live this way, brother?" continued Crispin. "I’d like to get sick at home tomorrow, I’d like to fall into a long sickness so that mother might take care of me and not let me come back to the convento. So I’d not be called a thief nor would they whip me. And you too, brother, you must get sick with me."

"No," answered the older, "we should all die: mother of grief and we of hunger."

Crispin remained silent for a moment, then asked, "How much will you get this month?"

"Two pesos. They’re fined me twice."

"Then pay what they say I’ve stolen, so that they won’t call us thieves. Pay it, brother!"

"Are you crazy, Crispin? Mother wouldn’t have anything to eat. The senior sacristan says that you’ve stolen two gold pieces, and they’re worth thirty-two pesos."

The little one counted on his fingers up to thirty-two. "Six hands and two fingers over and each finger a peso!" he murmured thoughtfully. "And each peso, how many cuartos?"

"A hundred and sixty."

"A hundred and sixty cuartos? A hundred and sixty times a cuarto? Goodness! And how many are a hundred and sixty?"

"Thirty-two hands," answered the older.

Crispin looked hard at his little hands. "Thirty-two hands," he repeated, "six hands and two fingers over [103]and each finger thirty-two hands and each finger a cuarto—goodness, what a lot of cuartos! I could hardly count them in three days; and with them could be bought shoes for our feet, a hat for my head when the sun shines hot, a big umbrella for the rain, and food, and clothes for you and mother, and—" He became silent and thoughtful again. "Now I’m sorry that I didn’t steal!" he soon exclaimed.

"Crispin!" reproached his brother.

"Don’t get angry! The curate has said that he’ll beat me to death if the money doesn’t appear, and if I had stolen it I could make it appear. Anyhow, if I died you and mother would at least have clothes. Oh, if I had only stolen it!"

The elder pulled on the rope in silence. After a time he replied with a sigh: "What I’m afraid of is that mother will scold you when she knows about it."

"Do you think so?" asked the younger with astonishment. "You will tell her that they’re whipped me and I’ll show the welts on my back and my torn pocket. I had only one cuarto, which was given to me last Easter, but the curate took that away from me yesterday. I never saw a prettier cuarto! No, mother won’t believe it."

"If the curate says so—"

Crispin began to cry, murmuring between his sobs, "Then go home alone! I don’t want to go. Tell mother that I’m sick. I don’t want to go."

"Crispin, don’t cry!" pleaded the elder. "Mother won’t believe it—don’t cry! Old Tasio told us that a fine supper is waiting for us."

"A fine supper! And I haven’t eaten for a long time. They won’t give me anything to eat until the two gold pieces appear. But, if mother believes it? You must tell her that the senior sacristan is a liar but that the curate believes him and that all of them are liars, that they say that we’re thieves because our father is a vagabond who—"

[104]At that instant a head appeared at the top of the stairway leading down to the floor below, and that head, like Medusa’s, froze the words on the child’s lips. It was a long, narrow head covered with black hair, with blue glasses concealing the fact that one eye was sightless. The senior sacristan was accustomed to appear thus without noise or warning of any kind. The two brothers turned cold with fear. "On you, Basilio, I impose a fine of two reals for not ringing the bells in time," he said in a voice so hollow that his throat seemed to lack vocal chords. "You, Crispin, must stay tonight, until what you stole reappears."

Crispin looked at his brother as if pleading for protection.

"But we already have permission—mother expects us at eight o’clock," objected Basilio timidly.

"Neither shall you go home at eight, you’ll stay until ten."

"But, sir, after nine o’clock no one is allowed to be out and our house is far from here."

"Are you trying to give me orders?" growled the man irritably, as he caught Crispin by the arm and started to drag him away.

"Oh, sir, it’s been a week now since we’re seen our mother," begged Basilio, catching hold of his brother as if to defend him.

The senior sacristan struck his hand away and jerked at Crispin, who began to weep as he fell to the floor, crying out to his brother, "Don’t leave me, they’re going to kill me!"

The sacristan gave no heed to this and dragged him on to the stairway. As they disappeared among the shadows below Basilio stood speechless, listening to the sounds of his brother’s body striking against the steps. Then followed the sound of a blow and heartrending cries that died away in the distance.

The boy stood on tiptoe, hardly breathing and listening [105]fixedly, with his eyes unnaturally wide and his fists clenched. "When shall I be strong enough to plow a field?" he muttered between his teeth as he started below hastily. Upon reaching the organ-loft he paused to listen; the voice of his brother was fast dying away in the distance and the cries of "Mother! Brother!" were at last completely cut off by the sound of a closing door. Trembling and perspiring, he paused for a moment with his fist in his mouth to keep down a cry of anguish. He let his gaze wander about the dimly lighted church where an oil-lamp gave a ghostly light, revealing the catafalque in the center. The doors were closed and fastened, and the windows had iron bars on them. Suddenly he reascended the stairway to the place where the candle was burning and then climbed up into the third floor of the belfry. After untying the ropes from the bell-clappers he again descended. He was pale and his eyes glistened, but not with tears. Meanwhile, the rain was gradually ceasing and the sky was clearing. Basilio knotted the ropes together, tied one end to a rail of the balustrade, and without even remembering to put out the light let himself down into the darkness outside. A few moments later voices were heard on one of the streets of the town, two shots resounded, but no one seemed to be alarmed and silence again reigned. {mospagebreak_scroll title=Chapter XVI-Sisa} [106] [Contents]

Next Chapter would be about SISA ...(abangan)

[Señorita Tessa 1]

...... of lightning, followed by rolling thunder, caused Doray to start up and exclaim, as she crossed herself: "Jesús, María, y José! I’m going to leave you, I’m going to burn some sacred palm and light candles of penitence."

For those of you who may not know, "Jesús, María y José" is the origin of the Filipino expression "sus mar yosep".

[mrsartis 10]

...... of lightning, followed by rolling thunder, caused Doray to start up and exclaim, as she crossed herself: "Jesús, María, y José! I’m going to leave you, I’m going to burn some sacred palm and light candles of penitence."

For those of you who may not know, "Jesús, María y José" is the origin of the Filipino expression "sus mar yosep".

eventually evolved to "sus me", or simply "sus"

[Señor Bonito 2]

There is a high end clothing line called Crispin & Basilio, created by L.A. designer Donny Barrios, a native of the Philippines. I wonder if Donny was inspired by the sacristan brothers of Noli Me Tangere fame.

[mrsartis 10]

There is a high end clothing line called Crispin & Basilio, created by L.A. designer Donny Barrios, a native of the Philippines. I wonder if Donny was inspired by the sacristan brothers of Noli Me Tangere fame.

yeah pretty much , may be not they portray in the novel, but their name, like every one who passes 3rd yea high school in the philippines knew Crispin and Basilio lol..